Mr. CEO(96)

The timer goes off, and Nathan turns back to the bag. His first punch is a jab, but still, the hundred and fifty-pound bag jumps like it's just been shot, only to be followed up almost immediately by a thunderous right hand that shakes the beam the bag is attached to. The foot-thick wooden beam groans and I see dust shake down around him as Nathan continues with his assault on the bag, driving fists, elbows, knees and his bare feet into the leather sides. When the timer goes off again, he looks surprised that I'm still standing there watching him.

“I'm going to repeat myself, Nathan. Did you set the bomb that blew up the Grammercys’ car? No matter how much you want to try and scare the shit outta me by beating up the bag, I'm going to get an answer.”

“You sure about that?” Nathan asks. The timer goes off again, but he ignores it, still looking at me. “You think you can beat an answer out of me?”

“I'll do what I have to, succeed or not. I thought you were a better man than that. Why'd you lie, Nathan, when I asked you about the bomb before?”

“I didn't lie,” Nathan says, stripping off his gloves. “What I said was that I didn't kill Katrina's parents.”

“Considering her father's alive and running a bar in Miami, no shit. Now, are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Nathan goes over to the locker that contains the boxing equipment and pulls out one set of sparring gloves. “Let's see if you really are ready for the answer. You survive two rounds, and I'll tell you a bedtime story.”

“What are the rules?” I ask, catching the gloves as he tosses them to me.

“Boxing. I don't want to actually hurt you, Jackson. But you'll have to earn the truth if you want it. Coming in here and demanding things from me doesn't show me that you're ready for the truth. So I will test your resolve.”

We walk over to the matted area, which is about the closest thing we have to a ring without throwing down outside on the grass. Nathan sets the timer, then pulls his gloves on. “On the bell.”

“No mouthpieces?” I ask. Nathan shrugs, and I get his point. I don't even have one here in the gym, and it doesn't matter anyway. If something gets knocked out, I'll go to the dentist.

The electronic bell goes off, and I come out. I've got size on him, at least twenty pounds, and I'm an inch taller, but I'm taking nothing for granted. He might not want to hurt me, he might be tired and sweaty, but he's not an idiot. In fact, he's perhaps the deadliest man I know.

I lose track of what's happening after his first combination comes whipping toward my head. All I know is that he's a whirlwind, fists coming through every gap in whatever defense I set up. I keep my hands high, protecting my head, hoping that all the crunches and other stomach training I do can keep me from getting put down with a liver shot.

Nathan does notice, and I'm eating punch after punch to my stomach and sides, and I run, dancing and shucking and jiving as best I can. I had decent moves in my last fight, easily avoiding the guy I fought then, some football player from Tulane who thought he was a little tougher than he actually was.

But Nathan's no college football player with more balls than brains. He's trained, he's a professional, and as the bell beeps to signal the end of the first round, I'm already staggering as I head back to the corner.

“You can't take an ass whipping like that again,” Nathan says, barely breathing hard while I kneel in my corner. “Give up.”

“Not until you tell me what you did to the Grammercys.” I get to my feet, my stomach on fire and my legs shaking. “Come on, I won't just be a punching bag this round.”

Nathan's eyes gleam with something that I think is either respect or perhaps pity, or maybe he just thinks I'm out of my f*cking gourd. The bell rings and I step out, flicking a jab. It's not much, but I hope it's enough to keep him from just steamrolling me again.

No such luck. In a sweet little move, he switches his stance, his right hand becoming his lead and catching me over my punch, his fist crashing into my jaw. I feel something work loose, and the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. I stagger back, trying to duck away, covering up. The world is spinning, and suddenly I hit the mat, knocked down.

“One... two... stay the f*ck down... four...” Nathan says, and I at least take a little comfort in the fact that he's breathing heavier than he was before. It'd be so easy, giving up. But Katrina would never give up. She's willing to die for her vengeance...

I don't know how I get to my feet, but suddenly I'm up with my fists out, and for some crazy f*cking reason, I'm waving Nathan over. “Come on! Is that it, old man?”

Nathan shakes his head and steps forward again, this time back in his typical left-handed stance. His left jab catches me between the eyes, and I eat it, ducking into the punch and throwing everything I have into a right cross that catches him in the side, just under his armpit and causing him to grunt.

He steps back and shakes out his arm. Nodding in respect, he unleashes hell, and I'm forced to just defend again before another sledgehammer explodes in my stomach, and I'm down on one knee.

“Stay the f*ck down!” Nathan gasps, stepping back. I hold my stomach and look up at the clock, seeing there's still thirty seconds left. I can survive thirty seconds, hell he’s gasping for breath as much as I am.