Page 10 of Killaney Blood

It's a beautiful racket.

"Boss," someone yells, then taps me on the shoulder.

I turn to see Jimmy, one of my security guys.

"Sir, you better come see this."

I don't like those words, especially when they come from someone who hardly speaks.

It can't be good.

I follow him out the back door and into the alley behind the gym. It's cold. The kind of cold that only Boston can deliver.

"Over there," Jimmy points.

At first, I don't see anything but shadows. Then a shape materializes, a man slumped against the wall, head hanging forward.

There's blood. A lot of it. Pooled near the dumpster and smeared down the bricks. He fought off his attacker for sure.

"Is that?" I ask as I approach. "Son of a bitch."

Shit. It's my fighter.

"How long's he been out here?"

"Don't know," Jimmy says. "One of the staff found him ten minutes ago, taking out trash."

"Get someone," I say. "Someone medical."

"The hospital?" Jimmy asks.

I give him a look that shuts him up immediately. "Inside. There should be a doctor or nurse. Whoever's working the fights tonight. Get them."

Jimmy disappears back into the warehouse, leaving me alone with the dead man. I study Knox's face, peaceful despite the violence done to him. Twenty-three, immigrant from Venezuela. Trained in boxing since he was eight. Hungry for success, for a better life.

Now he's just another body cooling in an alley.

The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Jimmy, another one of my guys, and an overweight guy holding a bag.

The man walks past me and kneels beside Knox.

"What happened?" he asks as he checks his vitals.

"Was hoping you'd tell me," I say. "He's one of mine. Supposed to fight tonight."

He looks up at me and then back to the body.

He presses his fingers to my fighter's neck, lifts his eyelids, examines the wounds. The blood doesn't seem to bother him at all, just another day at the office.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'd be more interested in watching her work, but maybe it's a good thing that little Ghost Angel isn't around tonight.

"He's been dead at least an hour," he says finally. "Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Throat's been cut. That probably killed him. Someone knew what they were doing, if I had to guess. The cuts are clean."

"Great," I say. "That narrows it down to about fifty people in this building."

He doesn't respond to my sarcasm, just continues examining the body. Something catches his attention, and he frowns, leaning in closer.

"What is it?" I ask, trying to read his face.