This was what Cain’s intentionally shortened range of motion maneuvers had laid the groundwork for all throughout the fight. After a minute or so of jousting, even competitors at this level could mentally measure every millimeter of the ring and tack onto that the exact outer limits of their opponent’s reach. But the latter calculation didn’t work if the opponent let you see only what she wanted you to see. And with every kick launched, Cain had methodically done exactly that, never letting the gal see her full range of motion, which really was the whole ball of wax. Now, with her rotator betraying her, the moment had come.
The woman’s trainer, more adept at this sort of thing than his protégé, and having seen Cain fight before, screamed out a warning through the chain link. It was a warning his fighter never heard because it came a second after Cain slammed her size-thirteen right foot—hard as a tree branch—into the woman’s jaw. Even with all the noise, everyone in the crowd heard the sound, like a watermelon smashing on pavement, as the jawbone gave way to the foot bone.
The fighter was lifted several inches into the air with the force of the blow, her head snapping back far more rapidly than heads were designed to do. When she came back down the woman toppled like a chain-sawed pine to the cement, because her consciousness had just left the building.
All the ref had to do was bend down and see that the limp body held not a shred of anything that constituted a fighter capable of continuing. He waved the contest over after two minutes and thirty-four seconds into the final round. More of the crowd groaned in disappointment than screamed in delight. Clearly, the majority of bettors here thought Cain was going to get her ass kicked tonight.
The fallen lady was briefly revived with a cracked capsule of ammonia inhalant, hauled to her feet, and stood there, almost entirely held up by her pissed-off trainer as the ref grudgingly raised Cain’s hand in victory. Then the beaten fighter immediately collapsed and was carried out of the ring on a stretcher.
Blood trickling down her face and out of her nose, Cain stalked out of the ring without saying a word to anyone. She had nothing she wanted to say, or anyone she wanted to say it to.
Cain just wanted her damn money.
CHAPTER
8
IN THE DINGY, FILTHY BATHROOM that held no shower, Cain stripped off her sweaty clothes and ran a soapy wet towel over herself to remove the stink and the blood, both hers and her opponent’s. The bruises on her face were nothing; they would heal. She then briefly eyed her long naked body in the cracked mirror under the popping, unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights that had been all the rage a half century ago.
Only the best for this gal.
Not a single tattoo was grafted onto her skin. She didn’t need them. She had scars, burn marks, lumps, painfully deep knife cuts and other disfigurements; they were all there, hand-tooled into her. She didn’t grimace in resentment or disgust as she looked at these old wounds, she smiled in triumph.
I survived it all.
That had always been her attitude. Throw everything you got at her and she’d still be standing even if you weren’t. She especially liked it if you weren’t.
Cain ran a hand over dark fuzz cut so close to the scalp that it almost looked shaved. She had done that last year. She should have done it long before then. Long hair had made her angry. For as far back as she could remember, which wasn’t all the way back. She knew there were holes, gaps, blanks. Once she had hoped to fill them all in. Now, she appreciated the gaps. She had no more interest in discovering anything about her past because what would be the point? Only today and tomorrow and the day after that counted. And right now, she was a winner of a thousand bucks. So this was one of her best days in a long time.
Cain had finally got her rotator unseized, iced where she’d taken the hardest shots, rubbed ointment on her cuts, and put on her underwear and bra, faded jeans, and a tattered sweatshirt. Flip-flops went on her feet though it was cold outside. With the prize money she would buy some new casual shoes, but thirteen double wide wasn’t routinely available, at least in something that didn’t look like footwear for clowns. She slipped the sleek fifteen-shot Glock 19 with the black matte finish she always carried to these fights out of a padlocked cabinet and into her belt clip. She stuffed her other things into a small duffel, slung it over her shoulder, and went in search of her winnings.