Best Friends Forever

“It’s hard to say, it would depend on who it was and I think I’d want some proof. Amy showed me the picture of the guy, and I don’t know what more proof anybody would need, but these days everybody wants their legal ducks in a row. So even if he’s not into being a dad, you’re still entitled to some support, right?

“But Preston is great, and it’s not out of line to say that you’re attractive, hell, your sister is the most beautiful girl in the world, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so yeah, I can’t imagine that the notion that he had a baby with you would be so shocking or anything to him. Surprising, at first, sure, but given a little time he’d have to see it as a positive, right?”

Amy glared. “I’m so thrilled to know that you think my sister is hot.” Her voice dripped with false indignation. “I guess you need to stay in a hotel tonight, Ayla. Or you do,” she said to her husband.

Noah leaned over and gave Amy a kiss. “We should get a hotel room tonight. Let Ayla watch the kids. Go make another baby.”

“Yeah, the hotel sounds nice, but just for the blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Baby-making is on indefinite hold. At least until the diaper days are behind us for a while.”

Noah shrugged. “Have it your way, baby.” He took his wife’s hand and turned his attention to Ayla. “I wish I could help, but all my Vegas contacts are musicians, and the guys I know wouldn’t have any more immediate access to a big-timer like Winston Watterson, or his staff, than you or anybody else.”

“Back to the drawing board, I guess,” Ayla sighed, finishing her glass of wine.

The next morning, Amy, Noah, Ayla, and all three kids visited the beach, splashing in the Pacific Ocean before Ayla and Preston drove back to Las Vegas in time for Ayla to get some sleep before she had to be a work at 3:30 AM.

Chapter 12

Mick had arranged a Sunday evening redeye flight from Las Vegas to London. He’d spend Monday night at a friend’s flat in the capital, then hire a car and drive to Sheffield on Tuesday morning and spend a few days talking his mum off the emotional ledge on which she always found herself this time of year.

In order to help himself sleep on the plane, he scheduled a late Sunday afternoon workout with a friend down in Henderson. The friend was a jiu-jitsu black belt named Roberto Luiz, who owned a popular martial arts school near the Las Vegas Strip.

Mick met Roberto at his home, where he’d converted his garage into a makeshift gym. It was Spartan and bare bones, no fans or air conditioning, just a mat on the floor. Fighters lucky enough to swing an invite to Luiz’s home gym called it “The Sweat Factory.”

When Mick arrived, Roberto was practicing how to escape an arm lock with a muscle-bound, heavily-tattooed young fighter Mick recognized instantly; up-and-coming

UFC star Burke “the Bruiser” Powell.

“Meu amigo!” Luiz greeted his friend in Portuguese as Mick walked in through the open garage door. They’d known each other since Luiz ran a hand-to-hand combat training seminar for MI6 recruits back when Mick had first joined the intelligence service.

Mick clasped hands and then hugged Roberto before extending a hand to Powell.

“Burke Powell, right? I’m Mick Merryweather. Nice to meet you.”

The Bruiser grunted, shook Mick’s hand, and turned away dismissively. He wiped his face with a towel and called Luiz over.

“Hey, this was supposed to be a private session, just you and me. Who’s the old guy?”

Luiz chuckled. “The ‘old guy’ probably knows a dozen ways to kill you with his bare hands. He’s ex-British Royal Air Force.”

Powell glanced over at Mick, who was stretching to prep for his workout. “He don’t look so tough to me. I don’t like having my training interrupted, and I wanted to go hard today. I don’t want to have to go half-speed for some guy chasing his glory days. I have a big fight coming up next month.”

Roberto cocked his head to the side and laughed. “Okay, BP. Have it your way.” He turned his attention to Mick, sitting on the mat with his feet in front of him, leaning down to touch his toes and pull his face to his knees. “Mick. Burke wants to spar with you, but he’s got a fight coming up, so he doesn’t want to get hurt. Go easy on him, yeah?”

Powell was infuriated, sucking down the remaining half of a bottle of water and tossing the empty into the trash can in the corner.

“Bullshit,” he said, stalking back out onto the mat while shadow boxing. “Don’t try to be a hero. When you need to tap, just do it. No shame in it. Then you can go home and tell your old lady you were on the mat with a future UFC champion. That ought to give her a thrill.”

Mick rose to his feet and leaned back, twisting slowly from side to side. “Sure thing, mate,” he replied.

In jiu-jitsu, the fighters grapple until one of them “submits” the other, forcing the opponent to tap the mat, or his opponent, signaling that they’ve given up. Usually it’s done to avoid being choked unconscious, having a joint painfully damaged, or when a bone is in danger of being broken.

Burke Powell had broken a sweat, was loose and in his athletic prime at twenty-six. If he won his next fight, he seemed likely to get a shot at the UFC heavyweight world championship belt before the end of the year.

Mick had just gotten out of an air-conditioned car, performed only some light stretching, and his thirty-nine-year-old body bore the wear and tear of a lifetime of rugby, military training, and real-life combat.

He also gave up two inches of height and thirty-five pounds of muscle.

Within thirty seconds, Burke Powell knew he was in trouble.