She was right next door and I'm such a strong persuader
But she was just another notch on my guitar
She's gonna lose the man that really loves her
In the silence I can hear their breaking hearts
Logan rumbled into the dusty lot close to midnight. He could hear the roar of a crowd inside. Something pretty damn exciting must be happening to attract a crowd to this sad little roadside bar 150 miles between Guadalajara and fuck-all nowhere.
He left the bike parked under the buzzing neon sign, swiping away the fluttering moths in irritation. He pulled his saddlebag from the bike and slung it over his shoulder, wiping the dust from his eyes, hoping whatever was going on wouldn’t keep him from the beer he was almost desperately craving. Three weeks since he had crossed the Mexican border, chasing tenuous leads and whispered rumors of a man with red glasses, and he was getting exactly nowhere.
He pushed in through the crowd, noticing the changes in this place since he’d been here last. This used to be one of his stops on the Southern fight circuit and the guy who had owned it back then, Eduardo, always had his ear to the ground. Logan was hoping Eduardo might have heard something more solid about Scott, but now he was wondering if he still even ran the joint. It was five times the size it used to be. A large portico had been added across the whole back, and the thickest part of the crowd had gathered there.
Logan managed to shove his way to the bar, his long arm reaching out to grab the harried bartender by the scruff of his collar as he rushed by.
“Cerveza,” he growled, not releasing his grip on the bartender until a cold bottle was in his other hand.
He took a long gulp, savoring the feeling as the cool liquid washed away the road dust from his throat. Fuck, that was good.
His mood incrementally improved, Logan started to really look around. A cheer came up from the crowd, and he wandered in that direction, lighting a cigar and puffing it to flame.
He stepped out onto the portico, pushing his way through the raucous press of people. As he got closer he heard the familiar sounds of a fight -- the wet smack of flesh against flesh, the crunch of knuckles against a jaw. He smirked, making his way toward the front. Guess the place hadn’t changed that much after all.
Harsh spotlights glared down on the makeshift cage, made of nothing more than rebar posts reinforced with rope ties. Logan winced in sympathy -- anyone thrown up against that would lose some skin at least. It made the chickenwire cage in Laughlin City look like the fucking Hilton.
Right now some behemoth with a handlebar moustache was having his ass handed to him. Logan watched in approval as his much smaller sandy-haired opponent got a good one in under the behemoth’s guard, cracking him on the jaw and then immediately following up with a knee to the groin.
The larger man doubled over, swinging wildly, and the smaller man got a shoulder in under his ribcage, heaving him up with a push of his legs until he fell backwards. A foot to the neck, ruthlessly cutting off the big man’s air supply, and the fight was done within moments.
The sandy-haired man stood stoically, fists clenched, still facing away from Logan, his bare sweaty back heaving with panting breaths as his opponent was dragged out of the ring. Something about his stance caught Logan’s attention. There was something familiar about this guy...was he on the circuit five years ago too? But somehow that wasn’t it...
Logan’s attention shifted as a small dark man climbed into the ring -- a little more gray at the temples, a little paunchier, but Logan recognized Eduardo immediately. Good. He’d just hang out until things died down and see if he could...
Eduardo grabbed the sandy-haired man’s arm, lifting their hands high. A round of cheers went up from the part of the crowd they were facing, and then Eduardo swung the man around until he was facing Logan’s side of the crowd.
“¡Señores!” Eduardo bellowed jubilantly. “¡El reinante y aún El Rey de la Jaula...El Demonio!”
Logan’s cigar dropped from his open mouth.
“No fuckin’ way,” he muttered.
He turned instantly and melted back into the crowd but in his head, unmistakeable, was burned the image of Scott Summers -- his teeth bared in a ferocious victory smile, his red goggles burning like the eyes of a demon under the glare of the spotlights.