story.
Rink indicated the TV with his beer can.
“I was figurin’ on havin’ a go at this extreme fighting stuff.” On thescreen, two buffed athletes were pounding the snot out of each other in an octagon-shaped cage. Unlike pro wrestling, this fighting was for real. The blows were aimed with intent, the strangles to a point where people passed out, the arm-and leglocks occasionally ending in fractures.
“I’m sure you’d do okay, so long as you didn’t forget it was only a sport,” I said.
“Man, it’s all in the control,” Rink said. “I know when to kill and when not to.”
I shook my head. “What about when one of those monsters has you up against the cage and is pounding the life out of you? You telling me you won’t gouge out an eye or rip off an ear with your teeth?”
Rink shrugged. “Biting’s for the likes of Tyson, man. It was just an idea. Something to keep me fit.”
“Go for it, then,” I said. “If you’re not too old.”
“Too old?” Rink looked scandalized.
“Well, you are almost forty.”
“I ain’t too old. For God’s sake, the damn heavyweight champ’s in his midforties, and he’s still showing these young lions what a real fighter is all about.”
I had to agree. The champion was giving a man a foot taller and almost twenty years his junior some serious grief.
I’m a realist. I couldn’t compete with the likes of those athletes. Not in their arena. But put them in mine, and I was positive that the man left standing wouldn’t be the sportsman. My expertise lay in the battlefield, and they wouldn’t stand a chance. You couldn’t go to war, then tap out when an opponent was getting the better of you. Fail in my arena and you were dead.
The same was true for Rink. He’d had the same training as me and was equally dangerous in a fight. What Rink possessed that I didn’t were black belts to prove his expertise. Even before he’d signed up as a Ranger, he’d been an interstate karate champion three years running.
The first time Rink and I worked together, it wasn’t during a covert operation. We were off duty, but Rink had taught me a valuable lesson.
I had been aware of the big American, but only as the silent new recruit who only seemed animated when in action. We hadn’t bonded yet, and I was as confused as anyone about why the strange-sounding Yank had been drafted onto our team.
Near to our U.K. base at Arrowsake was a small fishing town. The bar next to the harbor was a favorite of our unit when it came to downtime. Rink was standing by the bar. He was cradling a pint of brown ale but didn’t seem to be enjoying it. I glanced across the barroom and saw why.
There were three of them, Special Air Service commandos who’d been brought in on a joint training operation. There’d been friction from the start. Even over the murmur of the crowd I heard one of them call Rink a “reject Nip.”
I saw Rink set his glass down on the bar and turn to leave.
The three SAS guys got up.
I didn’t owe Rink anything, but for some reason I got up, too. There was a hush in the bar. The silence that preceded violence. Rink veered toward the side exit and the three SAS guys moved to follow him. No one tried to intervene. No one wanted to be pulled in as a witness.
The three men followed Rink into the backyard. Barrels were stacked against one wall, metal trash cans against the other. At the far end, a metal gate stood open and Rink walked toward it.
“Hey, slanteyes,” one of the SAS guys shouted at Rink’s back. “Where the hell do you think you’re running off to?”
Rink didn’t answer.
The three of them laughed and started after him. Rink closed the gate. He turned around.
I saw the three SAS guys falter in their stride.
Behind them, I closed the door of the pub, placed my hip against it.
One of them turned and looked at me.
“Got nothin’ to do with you, pal,” he said.
“Three to one,” I pointed out. “I think it does.”
I noticed Rink
Rink indicated the TV with his beer can.
“I was figurin’ on havin’ a go at this extreme fighting stuff.” On thescreen, two buffed athletes were pounding the snot out of each other in an octagon-shaped cage. Unlike pro wrestling, this fighting was for real. The blows were aimed with intent, the strangles to a point where people passed out, the arm-and leglocks occasionally ending in fractures.
“I’m sure you’d do okay, so long as you didn’t forget it was only a sport,” I said.
“Man, it’s all in the control,” Rink said. “I know when to kill and when not to.”
I shook my head. “What about when one of those monsters has you up against the cage and is pounding the life out of you? You telling me you won’t gouge out an eye or rip off an ear with your teeth?”
Rink shrugged. “Biting’s for the likes of Tyson, man. It was just an idea. Something to keep me fit.”
“Go for it, then,” I said. “If you’re not too old.”
“Too old?” Rink looked scandalized.
“Well, you are almost forty.”
“I ain’t too old. For God’s sake, the damn heavyweight champ’s in his midforties, and he’s still showing these young lions what a real fighter is all about.”
I had to agree. The champion was giving a man a foot taller and almost twenty years his junior some serious grief.
I’m a realist. I couldn’t compete with the likes of those athletes. Not in their arena. But put them in mine, and I was positive that the man left standing wouldn’t be the sportsman. My expertise lay in the battlefield, and they wouldn’t stand a chance. You couldn’t go to war, then tap out when an opponent was getting the better of you. Fail in my arena and you were dead.
The same was true for Rink. He’d had the same training as me and was equally dangerous in a fight. What Rink possessed that I didn’t were black belts to prove his expertise. Even before he’d signed up as a Ranger, he’d been an interstate karate champion three years running.
The first time Rink and I worked together, it wasn’t during a covert operation. We were off duty, but Rink had taught me a valuable lesson.
I had been aware of the big American, but only as the silent new recruit who only seemed animated when in action. We hadn’t bonded yet, and I was as confused as anyone about why the strange-sounding Yank had been drafted onto our team.
Near to our U.K. base at Arrowsake was a small fishing town. The bar next to the harbor was a favorite of our unit when it came to downtime. Rink was standing by the bar. He was cradling a pint of brown ale but didn’t seem to be enjoying it. I glanced across the barroom and saw why.
There were three of them, Special Air Service commandos who’d been brought in on a joint training operation. There’d been friction from the start. Even over the murmur of the crowd I heard one of them call Rink a “reject Nip.”
I saw Rink set his glass down on the bar and turn to leave.
The three SAS guys got up.
I didn’t owe Rink anything, but for some reason I got up, too. There was a hush in the bar. The silence that preceded violence. Rink veered toward the side exit and the three SAS guys moved to follow him. No one tried to intervene. No one wanted to be pulled in as a witness.
The three men followed Rink into the backyard. Barrels were stacked against one wall, metal trash cans against the other. At the far end, a metal gate stood open and Rink walked toward it.
“Hey, slanteyes,” one of the SAS guys shouted at Rink’s back. “Where the hell do you think you’re running off to?”
Rink didn’t answer.
The three of them laughed and started after him. Rink closed the gate. He turned around.
I saw the three SAS guys falter in their stride.
Behind them, I closed the door of the pub, placed my hip against it.
One of them turned and looked at me.
“Got nothin’ to do with you, pal,” he said.
“Three to one,” I pointed out. “I think it does.”
I noticed Rink
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