Page 1 of Havoc

Grim

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” fans chanted as New Jersey’s Dominque Wiser came down the ramp with his hands high in the air. I rolled my eyes at the TV screen that showed him playing up to the cameras as I jumped back and forth on the balls of my feet.

“Speed is everything,” Ricky yelled in my ear. He got in my face as we saw the cameras zoom in on a guy who shouted for Dominque to crush my skull. “When that bell rings, nothing matters but that first move. Bring him down, break what you need to, so he won’t get up.” He grinned his stained, yellow teeth at me. “Do what you do best.” He slapped the side of my head. “Ready?” I nodded. “Good.” I knew Ricky was the best, and the crowd sounds diminished as I homed in on what he said.

A few seconds later, Ricky pulled back the curtain and I stepped into the brightly lit arena. The place was packed to the rim with crazy-ass fans who paid good money for Dominque to kick my ass.

“Hey, Grim.” I turned back to look at Ricky. “Live up to your name.” He pointed to the screen that wrapped around the place, and I saw my stage name flash in black. It had a scythe ripping between the two words, Vegas Reaper.

I grinned at the cameras and jogged down the ramp with Ricky behind me. The banner above the ring read Lost Lives Fight Club. This was my first fight here, and we all fought for the last open place in the official Lost Lives annual tournament. I was a nobody in the underground fighting ring in the US, but I was determined to become a name they’d fear. I’d been fighting since I tossed my first punch in second grade, and I hadn’t stopped since.

I trained in Singapore through my high school years then skipped the Ivy League dream to feed my fighting addiction. I was lucky my family had the money and supported my need to fight. As long as I attended my classes and got the marks necessary to pass, they were behind me. I continued to train while I worked for my family’s business after I graduated. I didn’t need a degree to tell me what I could do. My parents knew I was quick, and I proved my worth to them early. Besides, at nineteen, I could land a hit no one saw coming, and I was determined to make a name for myself.

I had to hand it to Ricky. He had been my coach from the start and got me a slot for this night’s fight. Apparently, Kevin Hawthorne, the owner of the property where the tournament was being held, saw me fight the previous year and extended an invitation for me to fight sometime. Ricky made sure Hawthorne knew I was ready, and here I was.

I dipped under the ropes and breathed in the excitement that poured off the crowd.

“Bust his spleen, Dom!” someone shouted, and I grinned inside. These people were about to know my name.

“Hey, rich boy,” Dominque yelled, “Daddy pay your way so I can kick your face in?” Laughter from the crowd joined the hoots and hollers, and I nodded at Ricky to give the green light to hit the bell.

We slapped hands, stepped back, and the crowd became deafening as the bell rang twice. It was almost like things went quiet for me as I marked my moves before I even made them.

Just as the second ring faded out, I reached forward and snapped his wrist backward. I felt the bone break. He screamed, and with his defenses down, I dipped, loaded my weight on my back leg, and jolted forward. My back knee went to the mat, I grabbed both of his legs, and slammed my shoulder into his pelvic bone. My front knee went down, I connected my hands behind his knees, stepped up on my foot, and drove him down to the floor. Within a second, he was on his back, I chopped his windpipe when he gasped for a breath, then punched his lung and cracked his temple, and he was unconscious. I popped to my feet as the bell rang and glanced at the clock as the crowd went quiet.

Five seconds, that was all it took. I paced the ring as everyone around me caught up to what I’d just done. The cheers for Dominque instantly switched to cheers for me.

“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!” Ricky clapped with the crowd and winked at me. I was fast, smart, and hit like a cannon. That was what I was known for.

“Another!” Ricky shouted, and I waited for the next opponent to enter the ring as Dominque was carried away. I rolled my neck and shook my arms, prepared for the next round. A sheen of sweat had broken out over my body and made my tattoos more vibrant. My father introduced me to the world of ink at sixteen, and I’d been adding to them ever since. Every tattoo meant something, and when I needed to focus, I focused on them. The crowd cheered, and I saw a man hold up a Halloween prop. I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t the WWE.

Next came The Slammer, as they called him. He was twice my size and clearly could use his weight as a weapon. I knew to stay away from any kind of hold. I was six-two and solid, but he could crush me with one blow. Maybe he could, but I wasn’t going to chance it.

I calculated my moves, and when the bell rang, I jammed my fingers in his eyes to blind him. On instinct, he covered his eyes, and that was when I used his own weight against him. I kicked the outside of his knee, and as he fell, I twisted his elbow, breaking the bone with a snap. The sound and vibration sent a thrill through me and woke that part of me I lived for. He screamed into the mat as saliva spewed. I wrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed hard, cutting the blood flow to the brain. His face turned red, and he tried to swing at me, but I bent him backward, bowing his spine, and his hands flailed in the air. His body relaxed, and he passed out. I jumped to my feet and saw it was just over five seconds. I wasn’t pleased with that, but it had to do.

“Wow, Vegas Reaper for the win again!” the announcer yelled over the speaker. “Let’s see what else you got.”

One by one, they’d enter the ring. I’d break a bone or two at lightning speed, disabling them, then knock them out within five seconds. I walked the ring each time and let the adrenaline rush feed my body. Then I’d get my head on straight and prepare for the next one. I wasn’t cocky; I barely registered the crowd. I broke bones for me. It wasn’t a cry from a bad childhood. It was a need from deep within, something that gave me the release I needed. I didn’t question it; it was who I was. I slammed my fist into the man’s head, and he went down.

“We have our winner!” I barely heard the words as I tried to clear my head and focus on the cheering crowd.

Ricky was screaming and grinning and jumped into the ring and slapped me on the back. He grabbed a towel and tossed it at me.

“You sure got people’s attention!” he yelled. “The Vegas Reaper is here!”

I walked the ring and nodded at the crowd. Then my attention was caught as a man approached Ricky and they talked. I focused on the man; he wore a leather cut. Then I realized there were other guys behind him who wore the same cut.

The Devil’s Reach MC.

I’d seen bikers roll through town before who had worn that cut. It had a reaper holding a skull on it, I’d never paid much attention to them except to admire their bikes.

I left the ring and started up the ramp. I lost sight of the guy as he disappeared into the crowd. Ricky caught up with me.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Some biker dude wanting to know where you trained.”

“Did you tell him?”