Breaking Point by N.R. Walker

Author:N.R. Walker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Erotic Romance Fiction
Publisher: Totally Bound Publishing
Published: 2013-06-22T04:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“I fought in the underground circuit tonight,” I said quickly.

“You what?” Berkman yelled down the line.

“Just shut up and listen,” I said, not really caring if he liked my tone or not. “I need to tell you this before Kira gets home.”

I heard the line click and the sound echoed in my ear. “You’re on speaker,” Berkman said. “Now what the hell did you do and why the hell didn’t you let us know?”

“Because they walked in, told me to get dressed to fight and we left. I didn’t have a chance. I had to leave my phone and wallet at the FC, I had no way of contacting you without making it obvious.”

“Where did you go?” It was Mitch’s voice. “Where did they take you?”

“The old storage yards off El Segundo,” I answered. “But we made a delivery pickup on the way.”

“Of what?” Berkman interrupted.

“If you’d shut up and let me finish, I’d tell you,” I whisper-shouted into the phone. I’d never spoken to him that way before. I could imagine his face reddening, and I could imagine Mitch trying not to smile. “We took the FC van to the back delivery door of the sporting goods warehouse on South Western, off West Manchester in Westmont. We picked up new supplies for the club—mats, pads, gloves. I was surprised, but when I saw what we were collecting, I didn’t think anything of it,” I admitted. “Not until after the fight. When we were unloading the van, I noticed the punching bags had been switched. The bags themselves were exactly the same—same brand, same weight—but the manufacturer’s packaging was sealed different.”

I let them absorb this news.

Then I continued, “Tressler’s bringing in cocaine inside the punching bags. It’s not the Fight Club, or any of his staff or even the fighters, it’s coming from the manufacturer. Wherever he’s getting these punching bags, it’s coming from there. The underground fights are just a distribution point. No one looks twice at punching bags at a fight club. They’re a dime a dozen. He’s doing it all in plain sight. The unsanctioned fights are just a distraction from what’s really a dropoff point. There were three punching bags last night that got switched. One hundred forty pounds each, that’s a fucking lot of coke.”

Then I said, “So, someone else signs for the delivery of the bags, physically drops them off, and his dispatch mules take it from there.”

“Yeah, so?” Tony’s voice asked.

“He doesn’t touch it,” I said. “If the dropoff goes bad, his hands are clean.”

They listened as I gave them the details of the fight arena, told them how Fridge One and Fridge Two were never far from Tressler, how they were armed with Ruger 9mms and what I estimated the crowd to be, and how much money was bet.

“Your fight,” Mitch interrupted me. “You hurt?”

“Nah, I’m okay. But I tell ya, I’ve got a target on my back,” I told them. “There’s a guy at the LMA club, I think his name is Yuan.

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