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quieten down.
    “Now, before we begin, I gotta warn y’all that unlicensed betting is illegal in the state of Connecticut – so whatever you do, don’t go and talk to any of the four bookies we’ve got in each corner this place.” From the reaction of the crowd, it was clear Red was actually suggesting they do the exact opposite of that. “But most of all, have fun. We cool?”
    The crowd screamed their approval.
    “Well, glad to hear it – now let’s get on with the fights !”
    And with that, the music blared back across the speakers, and the spotlights drenched the octagon.
    Red flopped into the lawn chair and fanned himself with his hat.
    “Good crowd,” he grinned, reaching for a Miller Lite. “And I should hope so. They’re in for one hell of a show tonight.”
    Kristen turned to her stepbrother, and saw Hannibal’s stern, tense expression.
    It was clear the more he experienced this underground fighting circuit, the more uneasy it made him.

Chapter Thirteen
     
    Hannibal
     
    The first fight looked like it was going to be a joke.
    Hannibal had seen more intimidating fighters on homemade YouTube videos than the two guys who sauntered onto stage first.
    One was a neck-bearded white kid who looked like he’d spent more hours playing World of Warcraft than sparring in a gym. With his pale, spotty face and round, saggy belly, Hannibal didn’t think he’d be able to last the cardio three 5-minute rounds would entail – let alone the fighting itself.
    And that feeling was reinforced the moment his opponent stepped into the gym. Sure, he wasn’t MMA material – but the Hispanic guy who stepped up into the octagon was leaner, meaner and had a look in his eye that Hannibal knew was dangerous.
    “For the first fight of the evening,” an announcer declared, “we have Matthew ‘Legend’ Lograno versus Juan Rodriguez!”
    The announcer gave some bio details that Hannibal didn’t even bother listening to. He just watched as the two fighters lined up, and worked out the odds in his head.
    As a twenty-year martial arts student, and a championship MMA fighter, he was good at reading opponents. He could see from the stiff way the white kid moved that he’d learned most of his moves from a Gracie jujitsu DVD (not that there was anything wrong with that – except that it couldn’t replace real rolling on the mats.)
    The Mexican guy, on the other hand, clearly didn’t have the martial arts experience – but Hannibal had a suspicion he knew how to fight. A lot of these kids from south of the border did.
    An airhorn signaled the start of the fight, and Hannibal watched with intense focus as the two opponents circled each other in the ring.
    Right from the get-go, he knew something was up.
    The white kid was slow, and sloppy. If he’d been in the Mexican guy’s shoes, Hannibal would have come in swinging, and knocked the little punk to the floor.
    But he didn’t. The Spanish guy hung back – deliberately.
    It wasn’t ridiculously obvious – perhaps to the roaring crowds, there was nothing weird about it. But Hannibal knew better – and he watched with suspicion as the Mexican fighter took swings, and dodged blows, but always held back from pulverizing the sloppy white kid like he deserved.
    And that went on until the third round – when ‘Legend’ Lograno attempted a take-down on Rodriguez that, by rights, shouldn’t have worked.
    Like it was part of a jujitsu demonstration – not a live fight – the white kid struggled to put Rodriguez into an arm bar. Eventually, he succeeded; and almost dutifully the Hispanic fighter tapped out.
    A tepid rumble of approval went through the crowd.
    As the ‘Legend’ had his arm raised above his head, Hannibal turned in his seat and glared at Red.
    “Yo,” he barked. “What the fuck was that bullshit?”
    Red looked at Baller, and snorted. “Whaddya mean, son?”
    “That fight? That was some fixed shit if I ever saw it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re