The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

if he didn't shift his hip and put his body behind the blow. Anybody who knew how to effectively use the torque created from the midline was devastating, regardless of size.

It was second nature to Kelly, and his ability to put his body behind his devastating right hand had made him the reigning Golden Gloves champion in his youth. In a city chock full of fighters, Kelly had been crowned number one in the most competitive weight class. He was a lean middleweight. The weight class was the perfect balance of strength and speed, which also made it the most challenging competition.

Kelly let the first few snaps of his gloves, the six-ounce coverings over his wraps, smack loudly against the heavy bag. It rocked slightly. Force and its opposite reaction. Newton’s Law of Motion in effect. Kelly hadn't begun to put the full force of his combinations together. He liked to ease into it. He used the ring timer chime to begin his three-minute onslaught.

He got into a rhythm, throwing combinations. Jab, right, hook. His footwork in sync with the strikes. He let loose his favorite combo—jab, left hook, right cross, left uppercut, overhand right. The final blast of his right hand was his signature knockout blow, his clean-up punch. When his overhand right clipped the bottom of another's jaw in perfect form, there was no feeling like it in the world. When delivered perfectly, it snapped the opponent’s head, twisted his body, and sent him to the ground.

Kelly continued to unleash a flurry of combinations as the timer counted down. His mind could keep the three-minute round’s countdown with near perfect accuracy, a testament to his endless time in the ring. The slap of each impact was timed with the movement of the bag. A synchronistic ballet, a pugilistic dance.

Three minutes later, the round buzzer sounded. Kelly dropped his gloved hands to his side and took several deep breaths as sweat poured out of his body. The remnants of whatever was left from the night before, the poisons and toxins, were forced out. He felt better than he had all day. Three minutes on the bag and he had crushed his invisible opponent. The mental strain of the day was now knocked out. His mind was reset.

Kelly made his way over to the water fountain as the gym’s back door opened. Standing in the doorway, followed by a cold blast of wind, was none other than Bobby McDonough.

Kelly smiled at his friend. "Well, it's about damn time."

McDonough made his way over and dropped his bag of gear with the others, their claimed spot in the gym. Kelly and his crew were known as the Four Horsemen to the gymgoers. Not of any apocalypse, but of Pops' gym. Each a formidable boxer in his own right, but inseparability made them a force to be reckoned with. Anybody who knew them understood their friendship transcended the boundaries of race, upbringing, and circumstance. What made them truly unique was their ability to cross over the biggest boundary of all, the one that usually dissolved or destroyed even the tightest of friendships—the passage of time. Regardless of all those hurdles, the four maintained a connection as close as any bloodline could. Maybe more so.

Of the four, McDonough had proven to be the most wayward, the closest to the edge. Each, in their own way, worked tirelessly to keep him from falling off and disappearing forever. His chosen profession notwithstanding, Bobby McDonough always had a dark cloud overhead. The other three saw it as their duty, their responsibility, to bring him into the light.

No one bore that responsibility more heavily than Michael Kelly. Seeing his friend here now alleviated some of the stress he’d felt all day long. Kelly had been worried ever since this morning, when he saw Turtle O'Toole face down with a bullet hole in the back of his head and the assassin’s mark on his left hand. He called McDonough multiple times in an effort to get some insider scoop on what might've happened. When he received no call back, Kelly became concerned there might be another body out there in the form of his best friend.

Seeing McDonough, he wanted nothing more than to drill him for answers. But Kelly knew better than to bring it up now, here amongst the many ears and eyes in the gym.

"You ready?" McDonough wanted to know, reaching into his duffle bag.

"Six or ten today," Kelly asked, referring to the ounces of the gloves. Both were relatively lightweight when it came to sparring, but six-ounce gloves were basically only padding for the knuckles.

Mike Tyson had made it a requirement in his fights that the glove weight be light. He didn't want a pillow fight. He wanted his opponent to feel the devastation and the impact of each blow.

"I'll take the six," McDonough said.

By picking the lightweight gloves, Kelly knew his friend wanted to bang it out. This was going to be more of a fight than a sparring match. The two had been at odds for months. Maybe a good hard fight was what they needed. The etched sign above Pops’s door spoke volumes—Fighting Solves Everything.

Kelly smiled. "I already got ’em on."

The two got into the ring as Brown and O’Brien slid out.

"You don't want to warm up first?" Kelly asked. He felt he had an advantage having just done a round on the heavy bag.

"Nah," McDonough said, swinging his shoulders, rolling them back and forth while twisting his trunk. "I'm good to go if you are."

Kelly was already in a full lather of sweat. His muscles felt good, loose, the way you wanted them when you fought. No rigidity in his movements. Smooth, quick, and with plenty of power.

They touched gloves just as the buzzer sounded its three-burst, mechanical chime. They danced around a little bit, getting a feel for their distancing.

The mind needed to get acclimated to violence. The two sought their range with quick, light jabs. They'd get harder as the