Access Denied

12. Fighting Rules

Slowly, the loud volume morphed into organized chants, cutting the announcer's voice off. The Fight Club echoed as one as a man stepped in the ring from the left corner. He rolled his shoulders back and squared them, an intimidation tactic put to good use. He grunted at his sea of fans. The chants—like verses of a prayer—only got louder and now clearer.

Hell Hound!-Hell Hound!-Hell Hound!-Hell—

The man at the table sighed. He threw his hands in air, giving up and quickly muttered into the microphone. "Please welcome, The Hell Hound everybody."

And just like that the sea roared again. The man—The Hell Hound was bare muscle. His biceps were size of Kiara's neck—which wasn't enormous considering her petite frame. The man was about a foot taller than her. His square face had dark hair, cut as if grass on a lawn.

"Fighter, are you ready?" the referee asked the Ripper hurriedly. The Ripper nodded. He turned to the other man, who was baring his teeth. "Fighter, are you ready?"

A ghost of a smile graced the Hell Hound's face. He nodded. And they both charged.

She watched as the Ripper lunged at his opponent. For a flicker of a second the Ripper smiled, thinking he had the upper hand with the 'champion' of this Fight Club.

The Ripper caught his arm and snapped in the opposite direction, causing no real damage. The Hell Hound released his bent arm and hit his attacker's right shoulder with his elbow. The man let go in burning surprise. It was bound to happen.

Rule No.1 in Martial Arts: Never let your guard down. A second could cause you your fight. Or in this case, your life.

Kiara personally admired any kind of martial art. Martial Arts channeled your whole body, every sense you possess, and made it one. Her grandfather had always told her that.

He had constantly told her that each person possessed the rage of an animal. Each person was connected to nature in a certain way. He had taught her every single fighting technique he knew. And what he didn't know, he would scrape off another surface and practice it until the fight was a part of him.

She watched as the Ripper blocked his face from the constant stream of punches that the Hell Hound threw his way. The Hell Hound took advantage of the man's monotonous response to his hits and pulled the Ripper's right arm around his own neck, choking him.

The Ripper tapped out. And the Hell Hound won the first round.

The referee motioned his hand towards them and told them to take a break. They both retreated to their sides, the Ripper limping while the Hell Hound winked at the front row of the crowd. And the crowd roared again.

In the entire fighting ruckus, Kiara found it difficult to notice an aggravated Carlos nudging her to get her attention. She turned to him. "What—" she asked but Carlos didn't waste any time in speaking.

"That's him," he said, running a hand through his long hair. "This is the guy; my informant gets his information from. That's Marek."

The referee blew his whistle. The break was over. Both fighters stood and made their way to the center of the ring. The announcer declared the second round.

"Ripper?" she asked, hoping it was the weaker of the two.

Unfortunately, Blind Spot missions were never that easy.

Carlos shook his head. He pointed to the man straddling the Ripper. "That's Marek," he chuckled nervously. "And he doesn't like me too much."

Her eyes strayed to the Hell Hound and then to the Ripper, they were fighting like animals. Though, she knew it was obvious who was going to win. The Hell Hound—Marek—was going to win. But knowing that they needed his help, Kiara wasn't too sure if Marek winning would be a good thing.