In a boxing movie the kid would have said something at the top of the third. Something spiteful, or goading. This being real life he just gave Mickey the stare and got down to business. End game stuff, storming in with a raging flurry of combinations. One eye constantly on teeing Mickey up for the big one. Just as advertised. Manoeuvring Mickey round the ring with one thought, to put that golden punch through his crumbling defences. Deliver on his promise to the pack baying for blood behind him. And Mickey notched his defensive game up again, slipping to left and right. Channelling what was left of his energy to proper boxing. The years momentarily washed away on a last-gasp wave of adrenaline. Even the gym punters were watching now. One or two nodding respect that the old guy had made it to the third with more than just rope-a-dope left in him. And the kid’s da, inflamed at the thought that his one-time persecutor might yet escape punishment, made the fatal mistake. Brushed off the kid’s manager and jumped to his feet.

‘Fucking hit him!’

The roar enough to give Mickey a millimetric, fleeting moment of opportunity. The kid’s attention spilt, for one beautiful, yawning instant, between opponent and instruction. Better yet, caught extended, right arm out feeling for the chance to unload his left. A chance, the only chance of the fight, on offer. And Mickey took it. Stepped forward and counter-punched properly for the first time in over five hundred seconds of fighting. Fired his trademark right hook in from low. The punch finding the kid wide open and liking what it found. Inch perfect, straight to the on-off switch. Lights out. Kid went down like the proverbial sack of shit. Eyes rolling to show the whites, mouth falling open to spill his gum shield. Mickey turned away as he hit the canvas. Winked at a simultaneously disgusted and secretly delighted Grizzler and then grinned down at the kid’s da. Raising his gloves and making the universal gesture for ‘you want some?’. Sending a message, loud and clear. Have some class, step up or shut up. Watching as the famous manager’s goons went round confiscating phones and deleting camera files. Knowing there was no way they'd get them all. Uncrimp that, motherfuckers. Mickey Bale most definitely back in town.

About the Author

ANTHONY RICHES, coming from a family with three generations of army service, has always been fascinated by military history, psychology and weaponry – which led him to write the Empire series set in ancient Rome. The idea for his first contemporary thriller, Nemesis, came to him under the influence of jetlag at two in the morning in a Brisbane hotel room, after a chance text discussion with a police officer. He lives in rural Suffolk with his wife, two dogs the size of ponies and a bad-tempered cat.

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