Damage

Damage

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David Manoa

Copyright 2016 David Manoa

SMASHWORDS Edition v.2.0

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The author asserts the moral right to be identified as

the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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Author note: Included in this edition is DIE FOR LOVE. The alternate story arc with William Alipate, Claudia Coe and V (Villain). Click on the link below to access.

DIE FOR LOVE by David Manoa

Prologue

Piha Beach

1 am.

27 years ago.

The Pain.

In the inky night, roaring large waves crashed onto the black sand carrying seafoam towards an 8-month-old Nick Bourne. His blonde locks coated in sand, he is dressed in nothing more than black sweat pants and a thin blue t-shirt that is ripped down the shoulder and peppered with holes. The cold on his wiry body made him scream out for his parents. Foggy mist emanated from his mouth. But his parents were drug addicts, minds altered by meth. They left their poor son on the edge of the incoming tide as they smoked up in the reeds in front of the sand bar.

Seaweed engulfed Nick like snakes, weighing him down as he cried. The sheer noise ignored by his parents as they went into a hazed state of consciousness and pleasure. They were numb to the world. Oblivious to the danger posed to their son. A second wave came in, this time submerging Nick. The tide that could have pulled him into the ocean, instead pushed him to shore.

The tidal force scraped his face against seashells and sand on the ground. Nick wiped his eyes, blood dripping from the numerous micro cuts and abrasions on his face. He cried again. Looking up to the sand banks he sees the flicker of flame and the outline of his parents.

He crawls to the source, wind blows fiercely behind him. His clothes soaked, lips quivering, his body shivering. Mucus streaming down his nose. Nick blinks the sand out of his eyes as he crawls into the reeds. He sneezes and coughs. The thick long reed obscures the view of his parents. But he carries on going with his instincts hearing their parents laughs and voices. In the reeds, shards of broken beer bottles cut his hands. Nick feels this sensation for the first time…

Pain.

He cries again when the wind blows pressing the long reeds down. He looks up to the full moon to feel its light shine down on his face. It’s so hypnotic that he stops for a moment. He sits. His hands reach out to the moon. The only light in the darkness. Blood trickles down his arm. He wants to be picked up by it like his mother would, when he needed her. To be carried away from danger. It is when the grey shroud of cloud covers the moon. The comforting light ceases.

His hand's clench.

Nick cries again for his parents… He spots the outline of his mother standing. Only to see the flicking flame of the crack pipes dissipate.

***

Nick Bourne

Fight Club 88

The carpark.

10pm.

Present Night.

The skin on my knuckles are blistered and bruised as I wrap the strapping around my hands. A young prospect of the Black Snakes looks on. He is dressed in his oversized black leather vest devoid of his patch. My fist tightens then opens, purple veins engorge with blood. I feel a dull pain. Comfort.

Surrounded by a circle of Harley Davidson motorcycle’s, patched gang members in black leather vests rev their engines causing a deafening sound. The intoxicating smell of exhaust fumes laced with marijuana makes my nose twitch. The rumble causes ripples in the puddles of the rain lashed concrete. The reflection of the full moon distorts in the water. I feel the tightness of the strap around my fist.

I raise both fists and examine them against the moon. Bringing back memories. I hear the commotion behind me as bets are placed and cash is put down. Stray notes of cash drift from the wind howling down. It floats on the puddles before submerging under the foot of my opponent. Tattooed faces surround me. Cheers and screams.

Headlights switch on from the bikes. The arena is lit. The motorbikes start with the initiation, the stationary burnout of the back wheels. The acrid scent of rubber and exhaust smoke obscures the air with beams of light penetrating through. The discomfort of the cold hits my body as I removed my shirt. I’m dressed in nothing more than blue jeans and boots. I put my fists up against my opponent, Jasper Kayne.

The smoke clears and I see a brown skinned man with a solid build. Standing six foot five. He smooths the bristles on his face against the faded tattoo of the bulldog etched on his face. Muscles over muscles. Grotesque. He’s dressed in a Black Snakes vest. He turns around for a moment to take a pull, from a joint a biker is holding. I see the picture of the King Cobra on his vest. The neck flared the hyper dermic needle like fangs stuck out, ready to strike. Jasper turned and tugged his belt, attached to black leather pants and brown cowboy boots. He scratches the side of his temple twisting his neck to stretch before spearing his fingers through his Mohawk. Jasper spits to the ground then raised his fist in a Muay Thai stance. The chant echoes through like stadium filled crowd at a coliseum.

Jasper!

Jasper!

Jasper!

He removed his vest, his stomach clenches. The movement in the cartridge of his square shaped jaw pulses. His tongue pokes out like a snake. This tank of a man towered over me. Sweat weeping out of his pores, it starts to steam from the cold. His practice strikes in the air, flick his sweat on me.

WHACK!

He catches me by surprise with his sheer speed. I go down and Jasper leaps on me, pounding my skull.

Don’t make it look too easy. He says behind gritted teeth like a ventriloquist.

I narrow my eyes before head-butting him. He falls on his back. I stand to feel the streams of blood gather at my brow before falling down to my chin. I smell the coppery scent watching the drips taint the puddle of water below me.

WHACK WHACK!

Jasper gets me with an overhand right to jaw and kick to the stomach. I fall back into one of the gang members on a bike. He pushes me towards Jasper where he leap kicks me to the side of the face. I fall head first into a deep puddle. Half my face is submerged. I feel his boot push me in the water. The cold.

My mouth and nose, covered. Bubbles emerging as I grasp for breath.

You’re not listening fuckwit! Jasper says as twists the sole of boot applying more pressure.

The sensation of drowning hits me bringing me back memories. I cough, inhaling water through my mouth and nostrils a sharp pain, like a knife being shunted into the back of my head hits me. My fists clench. I see his boot raise to stomp me with his heel. I turn quick and get to my feet. I launch an uppercut right to his chin. He screams out in agony a pitched sound that would make you think it was a lady being hit. He crumples over clutching his jaw when I move in launching a barrage of strikes to his head. Grimacing. Jasper falls to the ground grabbing the front wheel of the motorcycle tire to push himself up. Blood drips from his cut lip. He flicks a glance at V. A man dressed in a black leather trench coat with a navy blue suit. Tanned skin, Black slicked back hair that ends into a curly mullet. Blue piercing eyes that shift to me. His lips part repeating the words, echo in my fogged mind to lose the fight. But the urge to win takes hold of me.

Whack.

Jasper launches another attack when I catch him in a choke hold. I begin to increase the pressure on him looking straight at Vitaly who is arching his brow, smirking.

Fuck you Vitaly. I’m not throwing this fight.

I tighten the constriction around Jaspers' neck like a python with its prey. I feel his futile bursts of struggle, each consecutive one lessening in power. His spit and blood, dribble on my forearm. The chants dissipate. He blacks out. I drop him to the floor. I am welcomed with boos and disappointed punters as cash exchanges the wrong way. The crowd disperses, and Jasper finally comes to. Shaking his head, Vitaly walks by him before lifting him up by the hair.

Vitaly says to Jasper, You told me this idiot would throw the fight. I could have lost a lot of money tonight.

Argh. He screams I told him. He didn’t listen. It’s not my fault!

Remember… you chose him against my advice. You said he was obsequious. Which surprises me because you are too thick to even understand the word. You need to be selective on who your opponents are and perhaps your words.

Vitaly grabs him by the throat squeezing it before throwing him to the ground. He takes out a cigarette, lights it. You’re lucky your idea of bringing him in as a trainer will bolster the numbers at the club after tonight loss. Though, I question Nick’s obedience to you. Especially after this evening.

Jasper stands, You just worry about keeping your end. I hear you have major problems of your own. And my lab is running out of product to process. I’ll work it out with Nick. He flicks a deadly stare to me. I’ll take it out of his pay. He just needs a little reminding.

Vitaly pulls from his cigarettes blowing it Jaspers face, See that he does… I have enough liabilities especially with the SAS soldier running about. He walks towards me, and I raise my fists. Vitaly brushes past me, putting his hands into pocket not laying a finger.

He says, Predictable…

***

Nikki Christian

Hey let’s go… Samantha says as she nudges my arm. My blonde friend points to the motorcyclists as they begin to move out in a convoy out of the carpark. I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to come here. I turn to follow her when a group of patched gang members grabs the man who won. Samantha pulls my arm again, but I froze. Jasper launched a flurry of punches while held the man is back by the other bikers. The man collapses to his knees when Jasper kicks the side of his face. It is when he sees me. The blonde, blue-eyed man the empty vessel stares at me drawing my attention.

Jasper kicks him again Stupid Prick! A prospect comes up and taps him on the shoulder talking about the street race on Roscommon road. I watch as Jasper gets into a Red Mazda RX7 coupe before wheel spinning out the carpark.

The blonde man is on the ground unconscious.

Hey! C’mon. Samantha says.

He’s hurt we got to help him!

No, it’s none of our business.

Why the hell did I agree for you to bring me here Sam?

Samantha shrugs when I turn the man over on his back. His body covered in