I brought my concentration down to my laptop and read off what the Combat Thrash Program was recommending. “Yank his leg and twist back the other way, and you’ll dislocate his hip.”
David gave a hard yank, followed by an immediate jerk in the other direction, and the English guy let out a yell. David released him and boinged to his feet, completely unharmed from the match.
The crowd cheered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good job” Harry complimented into our earpieces.
Still in role, David threw his arms up in victory and then turned away from the injured man and jogged off the octagon. A couple of club workers helped the guy down and the hard rock music cranked up again.
Two more fighters came out, bloodied each other up, and one got knocked unconscious.
The night continued with the same routine. Fighter after fighter. Hard rock music. Harry. Loud horn. For the competitors that were Warriors, Chapling and I gave them a cleaned up version of Combat Thrash Program strategy. Enough to allow them to win, but not enough to do real damage to other fighters.
In between it all, Nalani was giving up-to-date verbal reports for the benefit of our team members back in the locker room.
David didn’t make another appearance. And Mystic hadn’t come out yet. But with over twenty competitors, this night would definitely be a long one as fighters were dwindled down to the remaining two. There seemed to be no set schedule as Harry picked and chose who would fight who.
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Chapling and I continued updating the Combat Thrash Program as it collected information from all the fights going on. When it finally was time for Mystic or David, we’d have even more data to assist them with.
“I’m coming out,” Mystic said into our earpieces.
I watched the archway, and into the spotlight stepped a Warrior. The same Warrior that Mystic had gone up against during tryouts. The one he’d made ‘friends’ with. In fact, this was the first time all night that two Warriors were fighting each other.
Chapling muted our mikes. “Not good. This guy knows Mystic’s technique.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“I want Michael to win,” Harry said into our earpieces. “I’ve turned off the other Warrior’s communication. As of seconds ago, he’ll hear nothing from us.”
What a double crosser. “And I bet he didn’t tell the other Warrior of his plans.”
Chapling shook his head. “I can’t stand this guy.”
“Let’s hope all the Warriors gang up on him afterwards.”
Chapling turned our mikes back on while I studied the Combat Thrash Program. It pulled up medical records, past fights, preliminary strategies. This guy had a wife and five kids. Sheesh.
What the heck was he doing involved in all this?
The money, I reminded myself. Bad pays good.
The spotlight illuminated Mystic as he stepped through the archway. Unlike the other fighters, his expression held peace, confidence, and a hint of secretiveness, like he knew something no one else did. Strange enough, his calm facade came across more menacing than the others.
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He seemed to float across the floor as he made his way to the octagon. I glanced beyond him to see his trainer, TL, following close behind. Mystic stopped right beside Bruiser and gave her a big boyfriend-girlfriend kiss to which Bruiser shyly smiled. I bet Harry just
loved
that one.
Mystic stepped up onto the octagon and both fighters stared at each other across the space. At this point the other Warrior had to know he’d been cut from communication. He had to know he was going to lose this fight. I felt bad for him, with the five kids and all. Plus, he’d sort of made friends with Mystic.
I would make this as painless as possible for the guy.
“Okay,” I began, studying my laptop screen. “Michael, do not use meridian points. This guy knows that strategy. He likes to grapple, so keep him up on his feet. He’s a weak kicker, strong puncher. He’s got a long reach. He’s also had more head injuries than any other fighter tonight.”
“Hence the cauliflower ears,” Bruiser added.
I continued, “The Combat Thrash Program says a right elbow strike to the left ear is your preliminary best bet. Knock him unconscious.”
“If you feel the strike from your shoulder all the way to your hip,” Bruiser put in, “you know you’ve got it. If not, you better follow through with another one.”
I glanced through the crowd to Bruiser who had her hands over her mouth, pretending worry, using it as a cover to continue speaking. “Start slow, fists up. Since you’ve used pressure points on him, he’s going to be focused on blocking you from touching his body. Confuse him with some easy punches. Allow him to get one in, make him feel like he’s winning. Then feint left, elbow strike like GiGi said, and be done with it.”
The hard rock music faded, Harry introduced them, and the horn sounded.
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Cautiously, fists up, they both moved toward each other. Mystic did exactly what Bruiser coached. He threw an easy combination: left jab, followed by a straight right, then a left hook.
The Warrior expertly blocked with counterpunches. He landed one to Mystic’s eye, breaking skin, causing a gush of blood.
“No big deal,” Bruiser commented. “A little blood. Some Vaseline and tape and you’ll be all good.”
Then Mystic feinted left and landed a right elbow strike to the Warrior’s left ear.
Muscles rippled down Mystic’s side in a ricochet affect and I knew he’d landed a solid one. The Warrior stumbled back, right off the octagon, and landed on the front row. A woman squealed as she jumped to get out of the way and the Warrior passed out.
Mystic raised his arms in victory and the crowd cheered.
“I wish someone else would die,” I heard a guy comment.
I wanted to punch his lights out.
With a bloody eye, Mystic left the octagon, and I breathed another sigh of relief.
The fights continued as more competitors got disqualified.
“It’s almost to the end,” Chapling commented, and I nodded my agreement.
I wondered when David or Mystic would come back out, and who they’d be up against next.
“I’m coming out,” Mystic said into our earpieces.
“Me, too,” David commented.
Chapling and I exchanged a glance.
They’re going up against each other?
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“I’ve disengaged Daniel’s earpiece,” Harry said. “I want Michael to win.”
Good thing, seeing as how it was our mission to make sure Mystic won.
“Let’s make this look good,” David commented as he came through the archway.
I didn’t bother looking at the Combat Thrash Program. There really was no point. They both knew who had to win. But Chapling and I pretended to be doing our jobs in case Harry was watching.
Mystic came out next with a couple of butterfly bandages on his swollen eye. Strolling across the floor, he stopped here and there to shake hands with people and exchange slaps on the back—anything to give him a glance into their eyes.
“This is what I recommend,” Bruiser began. “Take no more than a minute. We don’t want to wear Mystic out. Give the audience a little show with some shadow moves, pulling the force before complete execution. David needs an injury, something to the face. And do a throw or two to make things look authentic.”
“And
don’t
tell each other what you’re going to do,” Bruiser warned. “Whether you’d mean to or not, you’ll react before you should and give yourselves away.”
Good advice.
“Oh, and break open Mystic’s cut again,” she commented on a side thought.
Now, that’s not very good advice.
Harry introduced David first, then Mystic. The hard rock music faded, the horn sounded, and both guys cautiously came toward each other. Slowly, they circled, fists up, sizing the other one. They threw a few sparring punches, like Bruiser had suggested.
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Then David grabbed both sides of Mystic’s head and brought it down as he rammed his knee up.
Chapling and I both sucked in a breath.
“Nice,” I heard Bruiser say.
Blood trickled down Mystic’s face, and I realized David had broken Mystic’s cut back open. Again, just like Bruiser had instructed.
Mystic swung his leg forward up between David’s legs and swept to the left, knocking David to the ground. Before David had time to react, Mystic scrambled on top and pressed his forearm into David’s throat.
With strained faces the two guys glared at each other as Mystic continued choking David.
I watched David’s face grow more and more red and thought maybe Mystic was doing a little
too
good of a job at the choking thing.
“O-kay,” David wheezed.
“Sorry,” Mystic mumbled.
Wedging his hands between their bodies, David dug his fingers into Mystic’s sides and shoved him up, following with his knee. Mystic went flying over David’s head and thunked onto his back.
Both guys quickly shot to their feet.
“Go ahead,” David encouraged. “Make it look good.”
Mystic came at David, throwing a series of punches to his face, succeeding at bloodying him up.
Cringing, I watched yuck gush from David’s nose and hoped Mystic hadn’t accidentally broken it.
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“Okay, let’s end this thing,” Bruiser instructed. “Harry liked when you did pressure points. Do David and reset him without Harry knowing. David, you stay down. Let the club workers drag you off.”
Mystic whipped behind David and poked his finger into his lower back, sending David crashing face first to the matt.
I gritted my teeth praying
that
didn’t do even more damage to poor David’s face.
The crowd roared in excitement, and I kept my gaze glued to David’s lifeless form.
Mystic made a show of walking around David in victory, jabbing him with his bare toes. I knew he was resetting his meridian points. And in just a few minutes David would be back to normal.
Mystic jogged from the octagon, and the club workers climbed up for David. They drug his body across the floor and back through the PRIVATE archway.
I listened closely, waiting for David to speak, but heard only silence. What if something had gone wrong? What if Mystic had hit the incorrect pressure point? What if he hadn’t reset things properly?
Harry went through the motion of introducing more fighters. But I didn’t hear a single word as I ducked my head and pressed my mole ear piece, listening for signs of David.
Thank God for Chapling who expertly handled things because my focus was shot.
More minutes ticked by, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I muted our Harry communication and asked, “David?”
“He’s okay,” Jonathan reported in.
I breathed out and looked over at Chapling. “He’s okay.”
Chapling smiled. “I heard.”
The fight started and ended within thirty seconds with a knock out.
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“I’m good,” David finally notified all of us as the unconscious fighter was being dragged away.
“This is it,” Chapling told me. “Mystic versus Utotiz.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Harry announced into his mike, “the fight you have been waiting for. If you haven’t placed your bets, now is the time. Ten. Million. Dollars. The biggest purse yet.”
I scanned the crowd to see men signaling the club workers. I assumed they were placing and taking bets.
Harry pointed at Mystic still standing on the fighting area. “You’ve seen Michael in action tonight. You know what he’s capable of. This is a fight to the finish. A fight to the death.
Someone will not make it out alive.”
The crowd roared with a rush of primal adrenaline, and Chapling and I exchanged a glance.
Mystic
will
make it out alive
, Chapling mouthed.
I gave one affirmative nod. Mystic would indeed make it out alive. Utotiz was going down.
Harry directed everyone’s attention to the archway. “And now let me introduce Utotiz, the world title holder in mixed martial arts.”
The spotlight illuminated the archway and out stepped Utotiz. Seven foot one. Three hundred and thirty one pounds. Like many of the other competitors, he had a bald head. Unlike the other ones, he had no tattoos. I knew from my research that he’d never lost a fight. He looked different from the last film footage I’d seen of him. He seemed heavier, like he’d put a layer of fat on over his muscular frame.
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With the hard rock music blaring, Utotiz slowly made his way to the fighting area. No one slapped his back or tried to shake his hand. In fact, they gave him quite the wide berth. Truth be known, I would’ve, too. This guy did not look like someone to be messed with.
A hard expression on his face, he stepped up onto the octagon, and I swore I saw it vibrate.
Mystic knew everything there was to know about Utotiz, but I repeated anyway, “Utotiz has no known method. He’ll get you standing up. He’ll get you down. He’s skilled in all areas of MMA.”
“Hence the reason why he’s the title holder,” Bruiser added.
“Combat Thrash Program,” I continued, “is recommending he make the first move and then predictions will be made from there.”
“I agree,” Bruiser added. “If he starts out with a strike, he’ll likely try to take you down.
If he starts with a kick, he’ll try to fool you by keeping you up. He’s a python. He’ll snake his way around you and squeeze the life out of you. Be careful. And with his adrenaline pumping, he may be immune to meridian point strategy.”
The horn sounded and both guys cautiously approached. They got within six feet of each other, and Mystic suddenly stopped. Utotiz took another step closer, and Mystic just stood there.
Another step for Utotiz, and Mystic simply stared into his eyes.
“Mystic?” Bruiser hesitantly spoke.
Another step for Utotiz, and Mystic’s face glazed over.
“Michael,”
Harry
hissed.
“What is your problem?”
Utotiz took another step, and Mystic’s arms fell to his sides.
I watched in horror—what was Mystic doing?—and suddenly I realized . . .
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