Ted Bell - Tsar

“You got it, boss. Let me just get rid of these fucking dead chickens, and I’ll have a nice little ring set up.”

“Untie my friends, Desmond,” Hawke said, unzipping his jumpsuit and stepping out of it. Underneath, he wore only a faded Royal Navy T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, now suddenly wildly appropriate.

He motioned Desmond through the door and helped Ambrose and Sir David get to their feet. He was broken-hearted to see Congreve once more unable to stand on his own. Sir David got an arm around him and got him back into his chair. Ambrose had gone deathly white, and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Sir David seemed sound enough and was rubbing his upper arms where the ropes had burned them.

“Are you all right, Constable?” Hawke asked his friend. “Tell me if you’re not. I will pick up my gun, and Brock and I will get you to a hospital right now.”

“I’ll survive,” Congreve said through gritted teeth. “But listen, Alex. You’re not really going to fight this man, are you?” he whispered. “He claims to be an Olympic champion.”

“Of course I’m going to fight the bastard. After what he did to you? It’s an affair of honor, the Code Duello. Surely you remember that fine old tradition, Constable? Precious few left these days. Sir David, some water for the chief inspector would be helpful.”

“Rum!” Congreve said in a hurry. “For God’s sake, rum! And then let’s get on with it. I haven’t seen a good fistfight in years!”

“Certainly,” Trulove replied, handing Congreve a half-empty bottle of rum.

Hawke said, “You might also want to shove that nine-millimeter of mine inside your waistband for the time being, Sir David. And Ambrose, keep my SAW handy if you’re up to it. Things might get spicy in there.”

“Good idea,” Trulove said, bending to snatch the weapons from the floor, handing Congreve the SAW.

Hawke left them and walked into the adjacent room. Desmond was posing in the center of the ring formed by the rows of wooden chairs and the Jamaicans who filled them, all of them now laughing riotously, clinking their rum bottles, smelling more blood. King Coale sat back regally in his tufted armchair, eager for the spectacle of his once famous son humiliating a white man.

Hawke stepped inside the ring, pulling his T-shirt over his head. He used it to wipe the green and black camo greasepaint from his face, then tossed the shirt aside. Desmond was dancing around on the broken and bloodied glass, stripped down to a pair of ratty track shorts.

It was close and unbearably hot inside the room. The two men in the ring were already drenched with sweat, though the fight had not even begun.

With the small crowd roaring support for their national hero, the two fighters squared up and began to circle each other. Desmond, a southpaw, quickly threw a few feints with his left to see if Hawke was paying attention. He definitely was. Hawke backed away, blinked his eyes rapidly, and tried to gather his wits. He’d boxed quite a bit in the Navy, with some success. But he’d never been in front of a lefty before.

Hawke was moving to his right. He immediately got tagged with a straight left hand to the jaw, followed instantaneously by a vicious right hook that connected, hard, rocking him back on his heels.

First blood. Hawke could taste it, the blood flooding his mouth. He remembered enough to swallow it quickly as he’d been taught, as something like tunnel vision and deafness descended on him. His anger at what this man had done to Ambrose had lifted itself and spiraled up into a kind of ecstasy. He was no great pugilist. But he was physically reckless, capable of unmitigated violence, he was strong, and he was motivated.

He had a chance.

Hawke smiled at his opponent, shaking it off, trying to rid himself of the carousel of cartoon canaries he saw circling inside his head.

“I’ve never been hit that hard before,” Hawke said, and grinned. “This is going to be more interesting than I thought.”

“I just gettin’ warmed up, old mon.”

“Your wrist seems to have healed nicely,” Hawke said, trying to get his feet moving again. He’d been hoping the injured wrist might still be a problem for his opponent. Been counting on it.

“Dat was Clifford’s wrist you broke, mon,” Desmond said, jabbing hard. “Not mine.”

“Called himself Desmond the day I broke his wrist on Tribe Road.”

“Cliff always sayin’ dat shit around town, mon. Sayin’ he Desmond. Say he get more pussy when he call himself me.”

Hawke kept his fists up beside his face in a defensive posture, still woozy from the tag, trying desperately to regain his composure. He knew he had to get back into the fight quickly. Because of Desmond’s lightning speed and power, Hawke couldn’t afford to get hit with another shot.

He moved left and right, stalling and thinking. The little camp boxing he’d done during the first Gulf War didn’t seem to be helping him much now. But one piece of advice kept trying to come back to him. What the hell was it?

When you’re facing a southpaw, Mr. Hawke, always lead with your right hand and throw a left hook behind it.

Yeah, that was it.

Hawke stepped into the man and threw the two prescribed punches, using everything he had. He saw immediately that he’d loosened a few of those shiny gold teeth in Desmond’s mouth. But Desmond shook it off and grinned.

The Jamaicans jumped to their feet, cheering their boy on with curses and shouts, hoots and hollers.

Desmond kept dancing, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. “Is that it? Is that all you got, old mon? C’mon. Show me something. Show me what you got, white mon.”

Hawke realized that he’d just given this kid his two best shots and that they’d barely fazed him.

The fight was on.

Hawke circled Desmond. The Jamaican stood his ground, watching and waiting, a huge grin on his glistening black face. Hawke was bobbing and weaving. Desmond began to throw some brutal right jabs. One of them connected, catching Hawke over his left eye. The blow opened a cut that began to bleed instantly, filling Hawke’s left eye with blood.

“That’s one eye closed, Grandpa, now I’m going to shut the other one. You ready? Get ready!”

Desmond began jabbing wildly, dancing around the half-blinded Hawke, hurling insults and laughing loudly as Hawke’s punches went wide. The crowd was on their feet again, into it now, smelling the blood of an Englishman.

Hawke knew he was in serious trouble. His shots to the head weren’t connecting. The kid’s hand speed was lightning fast, and Hawke couldn’t see much anymore. His mind was scrambling, searching for anything useful he could dredge up from his brief boxing career. A phrase, something his coach used to beat into all of them in training, began to take form in his mind, and then suddenly he had it.

Kill the body, the head will die.

He stepped into the man and struck suddenly, viciously, and without warning. He threw two ferocious left hooks, delivered mercilessly, one to Desmond’s liver, the other to his ribs.

He saw a much surprised Desmond spit blood from the two body shots. The Jamaican had been wisely protecting his liver, keeping his elbows tucked in close. But Hawke had seen a fraction of an opening and had struck hard. And now the blood was surely bubbling up inside his opponent’s body. Desmond coughed, expelling a great looping gout of flying blood.

Hawke took one step backward and dropped a straight right hand directly on Desmond’s chin. The blow staggered the Jamaican, knocked him backward, arms pinwheeling, and he almost went down. Two old fellows leaped out of their seats and grabbed Desmond by the elbows, keeping him on his feet, one of them hissing in his ear, “Des, you going to let this old white candy-ass bastard kick your ass? No, you ain’t, boy! C’mon, now, fight! You a Jamaican, son, you a champion!”