Rushed(122)

Eduardo, in the two minutes or so I had to size him up, was different. He was cold, calculating, and was committed. I knew as a BJJ brown belt he knew how to take damage, and this was not going to be easy. In fact, most likely, I was going to take an ass whipping.

I took my first step toward the hangar, curious if I'd even be able to walk. It wasn't easy, but I was able to make my way slowly to the doors of the hangar, waiting while they were opened. Inside, I saw that a circle of vehicles had been formed, with a tiny space left in the middle for me to squeeze through. Eduardo Mendosa was standing in the middle, stripped to the waist and wearing drawstring pants and a t-shirt. He was in good shape, not carrying too much muscle, and looked rangy and lanky. With my ankle the way it was, I hoped he had a glass jaw or I just got lucky.

I gave Dad a nod and stepped through the hole in the circle, looking around at the rest of the circle. Guillermo Mendosa sat on the hood of an SUV that looked like a Jeep, while Luisa stood next to her father in the gap between the SUV and the car next to it, her arms crossed over her chest and chewing on a finger. She was scared, and I understood. I was too.

I made my way to the center of the circle and extended my hand to Eduardo, who shook. He was devoted to hurting me, but he had honor, I could tell that much. I hobbled back a step and looked around. "Who's the ref?"

"I am," Guillermo said, sliding off the hood of the car. "Any objections?"

I looked back at Dad, who shook his head slowly. I looked at Guillermo and repeated the gesture. "Nope. It's going to be tough to have to declare your son the loser, though," I said in casual, Southern-laced English, which only Luisa and my father understood. I stepped back and held up my hands, switching back to Spanish. "Vamanos."

Eduardo danced around, light on his feet for a man as big as he was. To keep pressure off my ankle, I decided to switch my normal stance, going southpaw. I'd learned that stance a lot during my days in high school wrestling, where my coach taught us to keep our strong hand forward and ready. I also kept my head low between my hunched shoulders, hoping that Eduardo wasn't as good with his kicks as he was with his BJJ.

He struck first, throwing a quick little jab that I swatted away easily. His plan seemed basic and effective. Using darting, slashing attacks, he moved in and out, throwing slapping, jarring shots that I had to duck and bob, absorbing what I could with my forearms and biceps before he pivoted and went back out before I could return damage. He was trying to get me upset, frustrated, and tired.

Ironically, I was able to get the first good blow in, a tight palm strike shot to his ribs as he threw a long-range slapping shot that I ducked. He grunted and backed away, and I stayed where I was. My ankle was going numb, the constricting tape slowly cutting the blood flow off, so the pain was nearly gone, but that didn't mean I wanted to try to pivot off it or use it for anything more than a balance assist.

"Come on, I know you've got more than that," I taunted, trying my own way to try and get him to make a mistake. "This is getting boring, Chico."

I saw a tightening of Eduardo's mouth, and knew I had at least gotten through. Unfortunately for me, that meant he came in with a good combination, a flicking jab followed by an overhand blow that I stepped into. The hard heel of his hand blasted into my face, the area around my eye going numb and my nose starting to bleed. What was worse though was that he was using the strikes as a setup to another movement, dropping his hips and attempting to throw me over and onto the concrete. I'd faced this throw hundreds of times in my life, and normally, defending it would have been no problem.

I should have been able to block it, but my injured left ankle meant that I was a half-step slow on the squaring of my hips, and instead of a full block, we sort of half-tumbled, half-threw each other to the concrete. I landed with a jarring thud on my back, with him on top of me. Not where I wanted to be.

The first shots he got in were nothing too hard, mostly to my head area, but then he threw a tight elbow to my stomach that hurt. I grabbed for his head, deciding to say f*ck chivalry and yanking a handful of his hair to get him down into my embrace, where I hoped that my stronger upper body and muscle could get me some sort of advantage. There, I wrapped my left arm around his head as tightly as I could while I tried to hammer away at his neck and shoulders with my right elbow. I didn't even try to roll him yet. I could tell he was still too stable and on-balance, and I didn't even have a way to plant my left ankle either.

The fight devolved further, the two of us trading short little shots and grinding away at each other, trying to wear the other person down. Eduardo, for his part, kept his face protected, buried in my chest as he continued to throw elbows and strikes to my ribs while I elbowed and ground on his neck and shoulders.

Suddenly, he sat back, planting his foot and jamming his left knee into my tailbone, which jarred my legs and numbed my hips, giving him a bit of a gap. Taking it, he was quick as a snake, jamming my right knee painfully into the concrete. I was at least able to half-stop him, catching his right leg with mine before he was totally on my side, where I would have been in serious trouble.

"You're mine now, Norte," he grunted as he wrapped my head up with his left arm while hammering at my ribs with his right elbow. I groaned in pain as the shots thudded against me, trying to do something to turn the tide on him.

A thought flashed through my mind, and I took it as a desperation movement. It required me to use my left ankle, which I wasn't sure was going to hold, but I knew if I didn't, I'd get worn down and beaten unconscious or worse—he knew exactly what he was doing, and it was working.