Free Independence Day by Ben Coes Page B

yellow Lycra body suit. His arms, neck, and legs were covered in colorful tattoos. He had short-cropped black hair. A tattoo of a large tear was painted below his left eye. He was stacked with muscle, punching the air in place and bouncing on his bare feet as Dewey climbed into the ring.
    Daryl looked at Dewey’s shorts, then at his scar, then at him. He walked to Dewey, leaning toward him.
    “Hey, man, no shame if you wanna bail now,” he whispered, “know what I mean?”
    Dewey didn’t respond.
    The truth is, he barely heard the words.
    Maybe it was the smell of the gym. Or the eyes, filled with doubt, now upon him. Maybe it was the sight of the fight before, in the sparring ring, the kick, the blood spilling onto the mat. Whatever it was, he started to feel the warmth that for too long had gone missing. The warmth that should’ve found him in Mexico. Adrenaline. It was only the faintest hint of it, and yet it was unmistakable. He glanced down at his right arm. He saw the small black tattoo of a lightning bolt. And then whatever warmth was there flamed into fire.
    Daryl motioned for the two to come to the center of the ring.
    “Three-minute rounds. Only rule is, when I say stop, you stop. Other than that, feel free to kick the shit out of each other.”
    The Hispanic looked at Dewey from head to toe.
    “ Voy a matar a ti, viejo. ”
    I’m going to kill you, old man.
    Dewey didn’t even look at his opponent. He said nothing.
    Each fighter returned to his corner.
    The crowd was getting hyped. A few catcalls to the other fighter got him to smile as he bounced on his bare feet.
    “Chico! Kill the fucker!”
    Daryl nodded to someone seated next to the ring. He slammed a hammer into the bell.
    Dewey stepped slowly into the center of the ring as Chico danced left. Dewey glanced left; the man in the wheelchair was positioned next to the ring, watching. They made eye contact. Then Chico started his charge. He sprinted toward Dewey, swinging wildly, left right, almost too fast to see, his fists swinging for Dewey’s head as he lurched across the ring.
    Dewey waited, guard down, calmly poised, his knees bent slightly. As the swings came closer, he heard the roar of the crowd anticipating the fight, wanting a rapid, brutal ending to the spectacle.
    Chico charged into Dewey’s range. Dewey sensed a left hook slashing the air, and ducked. Chico lurched past him, whiffing completely, his momentum thrusting him forward. In one fluid motion, like a cocked spring, Dewey crouched, spun clockwise, and coiled his right foot skyward in a brutal roundhouse strike. His foot smashed into Chico’s face, hitting his jaw like a hammer, crushing it, breaking it in several places. Chico went flying sideways, tumbling awkwardly to the mat, unconscious. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose.
    The kick silenced the crowd.
    Dewey stepped to the center of the ring. His chest, torso, arms, and legs were red from adrenaline and the momentary exertion. He was ripped, his muscles hard and toned. He circled the ring, looking at the crowd. A few started clapping politely, then stopped.
    Dewey stepped in front of the man in the wheelchair as a pair of gym workers carried the unconscious fighter out of the ring.
    “You ready to stop fucking around?” asked Dewey.

 
    9
    DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY (DIA)
    JOINT BASE ANACOSTIA-BOLLING
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    Will Parizeau sat in front of a pair of brightly lit plasma screens arrayed in a slight concave atop a long steel desk. Parizeau’s bespectacled eyes darted back and forth between the two screens. A look of concern adorned his youthful, ruddy face as his eyes raced between the screens. Then came a look of fear. His mouth opened slightly. His eyes bulged.
    “ Sweet Jesus, ” he said aloud.
    On the left screen was a grid displaying four satellite images. On the right was a wall of numbers plotted against a spreadsheet.
    Parizeau was a senior-level analyst within the Defense Intelligence Agency’s