Bowen’s prematurely silver hair made many in the crowd call him an old man. But it was obvious from his physique that if he was old, he was in incredible shape. Well muscled, though not overly so, he was built more like a decathalete than a cage fighter. A prominent pink scar, the visible portion roughly the size of a football, covered the lower ribs on his right side — a badge of war earned from an explosion near Mazar-i-Sharif. The unseen portion of the wound covered his right thigh — and a good portion of his psyche.
Crowds don’t root for relative unknowns, so even those who’d ventured a bet on Bowen, answered his introduction with a chorus of hardy boos. Thibodaux told him to forget about the rabble, and dabbed a tiny bit of Vaseline on his eyebrows while Ortega continued his blaring theatrical intro.
“… In the red corner, wearing blue trunks, weighing in at two hundred and forty-one pounds and standing six feet three inches tall, a hometown boy from Brooklyn, Petyr, The Wolf, Voloooooodin!”
The crowd erupted, cheering for their hero as he danced around the inside of the octagon, waving massive arms over his head to egg them on. He flexed his chest, making the eight pointed star tattoos bounce on his pectoral muscles as he growled and leered, pounding his gloved hands together. Bowen was not easily intimidated, but this guy looked twice as big as when he’d come into Cheekie’s.
“Whatever you do,” Thibodaux said, “do not meet this clown head on.”
Garcia squirted a jet of water in Bowen’s mouth and stuck the guard in his mouth like she knew how to work a corner.
The brunette ring girl practically bubbling out of a red bikini held up the Round 1 card and began her circuit around the inside of the octagon. Volodin reached out with his glove to touch her but she swatted him away.
“Good luck, mango,” Garcia said as Bowen spit into a bucket. “You got this.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Thibodaux said, just before the air horn sounded. “Remember what I said. No head-on fightin’. That guy’s gonna eat your children.”
Bowen knew he was in trouble fifteen seconds into the five-minute round. Volodin shot in around both legs and took him straight to the mat, driving the wind from his lungs and nearly putting him in an arm bar. Bowen was able to roll out and scramble to his feet, dazed, and a hair wiser. The takedown did little but embolden the Russian, and he tried to rush in again after a couple of feinting jabs. Bowen understood feinting jabs more than double-leg tackles, and he tagged The Wolf on his blocky chin with a wicked jab hook combination. It would have dropped a lesser man, but Volodin shook it off. It was clear he didn’t want to get hit again though and kept his distance, circling and looking for an opening. The two men traded jabs for a time, with Volodin executing several devastating kicks to Bowen’s left knee, effectively chopping him down like a tree, one whack at a time. Each kick made the deputy feel as though he was trying to walk out a Charlie horse, all while someone was trying to take his head off.
Eventually, Volodin kicked and jabbed enough to work Bowen back against the cage. Thibodaux yelled at him to “circle out!” and stay away from the other fighter, but Bowen could hear little beyond the whoosh of blood in his ears.
Volodin used the backstop of the cage to his advantage, crashing in suddenly to smear the deputy into the chain link. With much of The Wolf’s two hundred and forty pounds centered against his chest Bowen found it impossible to draw a breath. Fleeting images of sparky stars began to swirl in his head, and for a moment, he thought his entire body might be strained through the chain link like a sieve. He got his legs wrapped around the Russian’s midsection and somehow had enough presence of mind to keep his hands up to defend himself, but he knew it was going to be over soon.
Bowen felt the referee’s body wedging in between him and Volodin, and for a moment, thought the fight had been called. The sound of the air horn signaling the end of round one worked its way into Bowen’s brain as he took a lungful of air. Volodin stalked off to his corner while Bowen clamored to his feet, certain that the reprieve was only temporary.
“What are you doin’ out there, Gus Gus?” Thibodaux asked, dropping a stool in the blue corner so Bowen could sit. “I told you to roll out. No head-on shit. Got me?”
Bowen nodded, saving his breath.
Garcia gave him a squirt of water. “No word yet from any of our guys on the duffle,” she said. “You still good?”
Bowen nodded, working to calm himself and take advantage of the full sixty seconds of rest. He was in better-than-average shape, but going all out for five minutes took its toll, and he could feel his legs turning rubbery. He had to do something to finish this quickly.
“Stop treatin’ this like a contest,” Thibodaux said. “You’re job is to stay alive until we get what we need.”
The warning buzzer sounded and the ring girl came through holding up the Round 2 card. In a repeat of the first round, Volodin reached out to grope her. She tried to bat his glove away, but he managed to get his meat hooks on her hips and yanked her backward onto his lap. Laughing derisively, he grabbed her breasts from behind before she was able to wriggle free and run from the ring with her card. Had it been a sanctioned event, he would have been disqualified, but in an underground fight, the behavior went largely unnoticed by everyone — except August Bowen.
Thibodaux and Garcia exited the ring and watched Bowen go straight at Volodin.
Garcia’s hand shot to her mouth. “What’s he doing?”
“Exactly what I told him not to.” Thibodaux grinned. “My bad. Gus Gus don’t know how to fight any other way but head-on. I’m guessin’ the righteous wrath of Bowen is about to rain down on Petyr the Wolf for his bad behavior.”
And indeed it did. The Russian danced sideways at the deputy’s rapid attack, still cocky, circling around to throw another low kick. Rather than trying to outbox him, Bowen bent his knee and let the kick slide up his leg, catching it with his left hand while he drove forward with his right, tagging Volodin in the chin. He could have executed a single leg takedown — and ended up on the ground, which was the Russian’s domain. Instead, Bowen let the leg fall as he pressed in, raining jabs and hooks from a half-dozen different angles at the Wolf’s head and face. Some landed, some didn’t, but Bowen kept the punches coming, causing the Russian to duck and raise his guard enough to expose his ribs.
A hook shot to the liver is one of the most devastating blows in boxing. Bowen had eaten more than his share — and come away from every one thinking he’d rather take a ballpeen hammer on the chin. Digging in, he drove a powerful left into Petyr’s unprotected side, digging in to the man’s ribs and causing his eyes to roll back in his head. His hands dropped and Bowen hit him two more times in the face before the Russian collapsed to the mat. Bowen moved in for more but the ref waved him off.
It was over.
Thibodaux ran into the ring followed by Garcia who had a cell phone to her ear.
“They have the duffle,” she said. “The Bureau and NYPD Emergency Services just sealed the exits. A couple of likely Islamic State dudes are in custody — evidently here to grab the nerve gas.”
Thibodaux took a pair of cuffs out of his back pocket and pulled Petyr Volodin’s hands behind his back.
“Any… Russians… in custody?” Bowen said, leaning against the ring to catch his breath while he peeled off the gloves. Ortega tried to raise his hand as the winner but the deputy swatted the man away and told him to get lost.
“Maybe Black Hundreds,” Garcia said. “I’m sure our guys are rounding up more as we speak.”