Monsters, Matt Rogers [ereader for android .txt] 📗

to use stress, control it, and she implemented them now. Let the tight stomach and the racing heart fuel her gait, bring sudden energy to her motion.

She hurried west, walking fast but never allowing herself to jog. Running would make them pounce, maybe even in public. She didn’t know how reckless her pursuers were willing to be. What they’d been ordered to do. She made her way to Benton Street, crossed at a set of lights, and then made a sharp right up off the sidewalk into a secluded stretch of grass. She weaved around a concrete sign reading: Earl R. Carmichael Park.

There wasn’t a witness in sight.

No one in Santa Clara picnicked in the rain.

She avoided the basketball courts and the public bathrooms and walked into a copse of trees opposite the empty tennis courts. A thin creek gurgled in the distance, swollen with rainwater. She took cover next to the largest trunk she could find and busied herself with her phone, hunching over it. Tried her best to look conspiratorial. She kept her back to the street she’d walked up from.

She waited twenty seconds.

Thirty.

No footsteps squelching in wet grass. No one approaching.

She brought the phone to her ear, miming a call.

Instant movement. She sensed it even before she heard the hurried footsteps. Something jostled against a belt, a hard object. She didn’t turn around.

She spoke into the phone. ‘Yeah. I’ll hold.’

It’d be brazen of Mary to attempt anything close to this, and the stalkers would’ve received instructions to stamp out any hint of resistance. Sure enough an urgent male voice said, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

An Eastern European accent.

Alexis whipped around, her face a mask of shock. Mouth open. She let the phone fall from her hand. It thunked to the grass beside her foot. She locked eyes with the watcher for the first time. He was only an inch taller but he still dwarfed her, his weight considerable under the leather jacket and jeans. His pale head was round, his eyes beady. The size difference carried implications.

With sixty pounds extra on your side you can do as you please with a slim and delicate woman.

Grey sky and shadow from overhanging branches made it hard to get a clear visual. The big Russian squinted, took another step forward. He didn’t see an issue. It was dark and he wanted to intimidate her anyway. What was a female software engineer going to do?

Alexis’ fear swelled to a crescendo and she harnessed it.

If this went bad, the result would be no different than if she was Mary.

He said, ‘You didn’t get the message,’ and it seemed like more would follow, but he trailed off as he stared her in the face. His buddy, an equally cubic and pale man, rounded from behind him, closing in to help the intimidation process.

The first guy noticed differences.

‘Wait—,’ he started.

Her fist came out of the raincoat pocket wrapped in brass knuckle dusters.

24

They stepped into a balmy reception area made up of three wooden trestle tables forming a “U.”

Promotional banners for upcoming local fight nights hung off the edges, forming one long chain. There were jiu-jitsu gis and Muay Thai shorts and boxing gloves for sale. A bored-looking meathead sat in a folding chair behind the central table, twirling a pencil between scratched and calloused knuckles. Probably a budding fighter making a bit extra to fulfil front-of-house requirements. Beyond the U-shaped trio of tables the open warehouse interior loomed, most of the concrete floor covered in wrestling mats. Under a mezzanine level there were maybe ten bags for boxing and kickboxing, all suspended from the low ceiling. A small gym setup with treadmills, weights, and assault bikes rested in the corner.

Not the worst setup.

Frankie Booth himself paced back and forth behind the guy in the chair, barking animatedly into a phone.

He radiated insecurity, which was amplified by the fact that you often don’t see unnecessary aggression in mixed martial arts gyms. They were typically a place for controlled and disciplined practice, and the ego tends to dissipate when you’re channelling your anger into something healthy and productive. Booth seemed to have learned none of this. He was short and squat, proportionally unfortunate for an MMA fighter, which often favours reach, but his pot belly indicated he hadn’t actually competed in a long time, if ever. He’d fashioned what little hair was left atop his skull in an upward direction with the help of what seemed like half a tub of gel. His huge round eyes made his whole face seem paranoid.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ he almost shouted into the receiver.

The meathead manning the desk leant closer to the new arrivals. ‘S’up, boys?’

They nodded back to him. There was mutual respect right off the bat. Slater figured if he and King had been skinny and soft, they mightn’t have received the same welcome. Sporting over two hundred pounds each on athletes’ frames sure helped with first impressions.

The meathead said, ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Here to train,’ King said.

‘Yeah, okay, right,’ the guy mumbled, glancing at the laminated instruction sheet on the table. ‘So, it don’t really work like that. You want to take part in the classes, you gotta sign up. You looking for memberships?’

Slater shook his head. ‘We’re not in town for long, but we thought this place looked good.’

The meathead raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you?’

King changed course. ‘We don’t want to take your classes. Just want to hit the bag, maybe do a bit of treadmill work. Is there some sort of casual fee? Just for entry.’

‘Oh,’ the guy said. Stared at the laminated sheet and furrowed his brow. ‘Not normally, but I’ll make it, like, ten bucks each.’

‘Appreciate it, brother.’

Slater paid by card and they slipped around the tables, beelining for the metal shelves of gear near the suspended bags. There were four-ounce MMA gloves and sixteen-ounce boxing gloves and shin guards and all manner of striking pads. They weren’t as snazzy as the gear