Val and Jan wrote up their interview notes in the case file and tried, without success, to engage Simpson in pursuing Tank as a person of interest in the shooting. True to form, Simpson refused even to take Val’s call. Jan tried to talk sense into him, but once he discovered they worked together, he hung up on her.
“‘You’ve got nothing,’” Jan said in a mocking imitation of Simpson’s irritable growl. “‘Ain’t a judge in the state would give us a warrant on that.’ Isn’t that why we question people? The idiot!”
The exchange ended Val’s workday and left her in a grouchy mood. Perfect for the night’s activity: her second MMA fight.
Short for time, she wolfed down a protein bar for dinner on the drive over. A few blocks from the arena, she encountered stop-and-go traffic, and opted to park a few blocks away, figuring she could walk there faster. When she arrived three minutes late for her 6:00 p.m.call time, she discovered the reason for the traffic snarl.
A long line crowded the facility’s public entrance, full of rowdy people already well on their way to inebriation. Men and women alike dressed in tank tops and rhinestone-encrusted jeans or tight shorts, revealing extensive arrays of tattoos. Loud country music blared from speakers by the door, and much of the herd sang along or danced in the street, blocking traffic in all directions. Tonight’s crowd, Val guessed, would be a lively one.
Inside, the backstage practice section was as hot as a sauna, almost as humid, and reeked of stale beer. One of the fighters complained Tank had run the air conditioning only on the public side of the arena. Val searched for Maya without success, then discovered a missed text message from her:
Sorry, can’t make it. Feel like crap. Morning sickness at night? Good luck!
Val cursed. She would need to find a new second, somehow—and fast, since the posted line-up confirmed she had the first bout of the night, once again versus Kalie.
Also absent, despite his assurances earlier that day: Stevie Ray. Tank made up for Stevie’s absence by shouting even more than usual in expletive-laden tirades at sweaty, overworked assistants who cowered every time he drew near.
“Dawes!” Tank pointed at her. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Get suited up! You’re on deck!” He didn’t wait for a reply, instead moving on to shout at a fresh victim.
She suppressed her impulse to flip him off, not wanting to antagonize him more. She changed and engaged in a quick warm-up stretch on the practice mat.
Tank gathered the fighters in a huddle before the opening match with a loud clap of his hands. “Okay, this crowd is mostly new, so we need to put on a good performance. Fight hard, with energy, and remember, this is an exhibition, not a league match. I don’t want any pouting out there if a ref misses a penalty. Walker? Dawes? You ladies are up first. Let’s show ’em what you’re made of!”
Val didn’t feel ready. She’d appreciated the opportunity to watch a bout before hers on Saturday. Get into the spirit of the thing. This time, her head was still half into work and traffic.
Seconds later, it seemed, they ran into the ring, introductions drowned out by the drunken crowd’s raucous cheers. The bell rang with no warning, and Kalie came charging toward her. Fists and feet and elbows smashed into Val’s body from every angle, with a ferocity she hadn’t displayed even once on Saturday. Kalie trapped Val against the netting and landed at least a dozen painful blows before Val wiggled free, already aching and wobbling on her feet.
Val backpedaled across the ring, fists in a defensive position in front of her face. Kalie took menacing steps toward her, but slow enough that Val could catch her breath and reset her mind, looking for an undefended opening in Kalie’s stance. She found one and jabbed a quick left at the woman’s exposed cheek.
Kalie was ready. She smacked Val’s arm upward and landed a forceful punch to her mouth, and a warm trickle of blood flowed down Val’s chin. She spun away, and Kalie climbed onto her back, knees pressing into Val’s side, still sore from Saturday’s action. She pounded Val’s back and sides with several hard punches, and Val went down face-first onto the mat. Kalie landed on top of her, pushing all the air out of Val’s lungs. Still sitting on her, Kalie kept punishing her with punches, kicks, and elbows.
Still no whistle from the ref. A pulse of frustration enabled Val to buck up in an attempt to toss Kalie off of her, but the woman’s thighs held a firm grip on Val’s tender ribs. Val pushed up to her knees, and Kalie responded by wrapping her muscular legs around Val’s, pushing her heel hard into Val’s groin. She cried out in pain. Still, no foul call from the ref.
Holding Val’s head with one hand, Kalie hooked Val’s elbow with the other and drove her face-first into the mat again. She grabbed Val’s ear, twisting it until she thought it might tear off, along with a fistful of hair.
Still no whistle. Only the roar of the crowd and the rustling, ripping sound of Kalie’s fingers tearing at Val’s earlobe.
Anger turned to fear that she could lose an appendage or internal organ. With newfound energy, Val flailed, tossing wild elbow shots around her sides in a desperate hope of making sufficient contact to throw her opponent off her. Nothing found purchase, but she managed to get back up onto her hands and knees. A rabbit punch hit something soft inside, shooting spears of pain through her body. Val crumpled to the mat, and Kalie fell off, landing beside her with a loud Thump! Kalie’s face came into view, a glazed look on her face, and Val guessed that her head had hit the floor. Val rose to her knees, readied a punch to her opponent’s midsection—
The bell rang, ending the first round.
Val half-crawled, half-ran to her corner, where her second, a leather-skinned woman whose dark brown ponytail sported bright-white roots, dabbed her forehead with a damp towel. “Tighten up your defenses out there,” the woman said in a raspy Boston accent. “You’re giving her way the hell too many openings.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Val sipped water from a plastic bottle, tasting blood and wincing in pain. “Does she have any weaknesses I’m missing?”
“Yeah. If she keeps hitting you like that, she’s gonna wear out.” The woman laughed. “Just try not to let her kill you. She’s a striker, so keep her out of arm’s reach. If you can last to the third round, you’ve got a chance. But I don’t know. She’s way fucking better than you.”
“Thanks.” Val would have rolled her eyes, but a cut on her eyebrow made it hurt too much.
The second round started out even worse than the first. A barrage of early punches nearly knocked her to the floor, but she stayed on her feet, somehow. After that, Val did her best to keep more distance and dodge Kalie’s fiercer blows, drawing boos from the crowd. Toward the end of the round, Kalie rained another series of punches around Val’s head. Val fended most of them off by wrapping her head with her forearms and ducking a lot.
“Well, you did it,” her second said, offering her the damp towel. “You survived. Congratu-fucking-lations.”
“Whose team are you on?” Val tossed the rag back at the woman and splashed water onto her face.
“Listen,” her second said. “You’re faster than her. If you can get her running around and put some distance between you, you’ll tire her out and create openings for some quick jabs. Use your legs and lean into it. Go on, get back out there, and don’t worry about the peanut gallery.” She waved a derisive gesture toward the drunken bozos in the audience who continued to boo and shout things like “Loser!” and “Weak!”
The bell rang, the crowd noise rose, and Kalie wasted no time blasting Val’s body with punches and kicks. Exhausted, Val blocked only about half of the shots and couldn’t seem to open a gap between them as her second had advised. About halfway through the round, Kalie executed the new kick-takedown Tank had showed them at the gym: grabbing Val’s shoulders, she hooked her ankle behind Val’s knee. When Val stumbled, Kalie jabbed Val’s other knee with her foot. Val crashed face-first, saving herself from a broken nose by slapping her palms on the mat. Her chest hit hard, knocking the wind out of her. She’d worn a chest protector this time, which dampened the blow a bit. But Kalie knelt on her back, pounding her with karate punches, Val’s forehead bouncing off the floor. If not for her headgear, she would have passed out in seconds. Instead, the equipment cushioned her enough to allow the blows to impart pain without unconsciousness.
After an eternity, the final bell rang. Val rolled onto her back and Kalie landed an extra shot to Val’s neck after the bell, then grinned down at her and hissed spit all over Val’s face.
“Fucking pussy-ass cop,” Kalie said. “You think I was gonna let you win twice?” She pushed herself up, her knuckles pressed into Val’s chest with her full weight behind it. She pranced around the ring, hands folded in a triumphant salute over her head.
Val stood for the declaration of Kalie’s victory, drained by the humiliation of the beating and by the physicality of it. She stumbled out of the ring, through the door toward the lockers. Kalie passed her, bumping Val’s shoulder hard on the way by.
“Kalie,” Val said, still out of breath. “Hold on a sec.”
Kalie paused, sneering. “You want to fucking kiss and make up? Dream on.”
“No,” Val said. “I want to make sure I understand. You threw the fight on Saturday. Right?”
Kalie laughed. “Didn’t we just prove that? Fucking dumb-ass rookies.” She ran ahead into the locker room.
Val slumped onto a bench, wiping her sweat away with a towel. A man in a red fighter’s uniform sat on the other end of the bench. A few inches taller than Val, with a wiry, muscular build, short dark hair, and a five o’clock shadow, his gray eyes conveyed a certain worldly wisdom, though Val guessed him to be in his late twenties.
“Tough match,” he said in a gruff voice.
“Yeah. That sucked. I sucked.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a woman’s sport.”
Val scoffed. “Kalie’s a woman.”
He chuckled. “Kalie’s a former special forces Marine. If they let her, she’d tear your head off and eat it. But most women aren’t Marines.”
“Most men aren’t, either. And I’ve never met a Marine who killed for sport.”
“Touché.” He leaned forward, reaching for his toes. As he did that, a tattoo became visible on his biceps. The alien-like figure she’d seen in the incel chat rooms.
“You gonna compete again?” the man asked after straightening up. “Or is this one-and-done for you?”
“This was my second fight. I’m not sure what the plan is.”
“I hate to say it, but you women get the crowd going,” he said. “So I guess in that way you’re good for the sport, good for the club.”
“Yet we’re not ‘real’ fighters, is that it?”
He shrugged. “Kalie is. The rest of you…” He let his words dangle in the air.
Val considered telling him the truth—that she hated every second and had no intention of returning. However, she wanted to continue the infiltration, somehow, without getting back into the ring. “I guess I’ll keep on faking it, then,” she said. “To support the cause.”
“Fake it ’till you make it, eh?” He laughed and clapped her shoulder. “Or die trying.” He stood and shuffled away, chuckling.
Val glared after him, then realized where she recognized him from. He’d fought on Saturday after her.
And, she recalled with a smug smile, he’d gotten his ass kicked.
Val found Gil waiting for her outside the gym, a sad smile on his face. He wore a light blue polo shirt and khakis, both marred with dried splotches of spilled drinks, and he smelled of stale beer.
“Did you get caught in a food fight or something?” she asked with a half-hearted grin.
“More or less,” he said. “I think the fans behind me threw more beer than they drank. How are you doing?” He opened his arms wide for a hug.
She kept him at arm’s length. Noticing the disappointment on his face, she explained, “Sorry. I’m sore and I feel like crap. Thank you for coming.” Her head pounded. “You don’t have any pain pills at your place, do you?”
“Nothing stronger than Tylenol,” he said. “Doc wouldn’t renew the oxy after I finished the last refill.”
They limped in silence for a few blocks, him due to old wounds, hers more fresh. Gil ambled close to her a few times, but kept his hands in his pockets.
A pang of guilt stabbed at her for pushing him away. She flashed him a sour grin and held his hand for the last block of their walk to her car.
“So, you saw the whole fight?” she asked when she reached her Honda. She unlocked it and threw her gym bag inside. “How humiliating.”
“I came in during the second round,” he said. “You did great.”
“Liar.”
He laughed. “Sorry I was late. Shelby gave me a ride and she got held up at work.”
“Shelby saw that mess too?” Val opened the driver’s side and unlocked the passenger door for him. “Great.”
“No. She just dropped me off. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone if you want.”
She smiled at him and leaned on the roof of the car. “What do you think?”
He mimed zipping his lips. “Want me to drive?”
She blinked. “Hell, yeah! Wait, you got cleared to drive?” She tossed him the keys.
“Yesterday.” They swapped sides and buckled in. Her seat belt pressed against the bruises on her chest, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“Let me distract you with some good news,” Gil said. “My contact at the incel group called me this afternoon. He says I’m in. Provisionally, of course.”
“In? Wow. That is good news…I think.” She leaned her seat as far back as it would go. That took some of the pressure off her bruises.
Gil nodded and pulled the car out onto the street, dodging stray pedestrians, most appearing rowdy and drunk. “They still need me to ‘prove’ myself. But you can help me.”
“How?” Val said. “Take your shift at Dispatch while you go undercover again? No, thanks. I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out by an angry baboon.”
“Sorry, all the angry baboons work night shift. But no, it’s more delicate than that.”
“How could it be—uh, oh.” The good cheer that Gil’s news had brought vaporized. “What’s the condition? An initiation, or some type of hazing? They won’t make you get a Nazi tattoo or anything, do you?”
Gil chuckled. “I wish it were that simple. No, they want something from me.” He eyed her sideways and whispered, “Information.”
Val’s blood chilled. They’d almost reached the bridge over the Torrington River and she didn’t want them distracted by downtown traffic for this conversation. “Hey, can we stop here a minute?”
He pulled the car off into a vacant parking spot. “What’s on your mind?”
She glanced around, nervous. Silly—no one could be listening. “What sort of information are they looking for? Insider stuff? On them, for example?”
“Kind of.” He kept his voice low. “They want proof that I’m legit. So the information needs to be real, and something the department wouldn’t normally part with. And yes, it has to help them.”
“Anything specific? Like, on one of our cases?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, too. “Say…the shooting?”
He cocked his head to one side, then the other. “They didn’t mention the shooting, but they do want to know what we’ve got on them. Like,” he said, laughing, “Do we have a mole inside their organization?”
Val’s blood ran even colder and her heart pounded. “Gil, do they suspect you?”
He shook his head. “Nah. If they did, would they approach me with this? I’d think they’d investigate me, rather than ask me to poke around for them.”
Val remained doubtful, but she didn’t have a solid reason to disagree, so she kept her doubts to herself. “Who is it that contacted you?”
“I…shouldn’t say,” Gil said. “They insisted I keep that quiet and made it clear that anyone who knows would be in grave danger.” His face softened. “I can’t do that to you.”
“Gil, come on. We’re both cops here.”
“I know…let’s say, it’s someone we’ve been working with all along. Okay?”
So, Tank or Stevie. Val glared at him, but his expression remained unchanged, and that meant his mind did, too. He could be so damned stubborn sometimes. And in the end, what did it matter? They all worked together.
“Besides,” he went on, “if I tell you who it is, you’ll tell Petroni. No, don’t deny it. We both know she’d crush your bones until you relent.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “So, how can I help?”
“I need to figure out what to tell them. Something that lets them know I’ve got insider access—which I don’t, and you do—yet doesn’t compromise the case.”
“That’s quite the tightrope you want me to walk,” Val said.
“If you need to run this up the chain of command…”
“I do. How much time do we have?”
“Oh, loads.” He checked the clock on her dash and grinned. “Almost twenty-four hours.”
“In that case,” Val said, “let’s hope tomorrow is an easier day than today.”
A gut feeling told her it wouldn’t be.