“Yes.” Amanda lies with aplomb. No wonder she is such a good attorney.

“I’ll go ask him.”

“Wait.” I put a hand on his arm. “Do you have anyone doing first aid at the club? I’m qualified and I’ll work for free if you let us in.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me ask the boss.”

Ten minutes later we step across the threshold. The doorman, now identified as Stormin’ Norman, informs us the boss is delighted to have both women and an EMT in the club. He hands me a first aid kit still wrapped in plastic and ushers us inside.

We enter the dimly lit garage, and my nose wrinkles at the pungent scent of sweaty bodies, spilled grease, and gas fumes. The crowd is thick around a makeshift boxing ring on the concrete floor. I count at least fifty men and maybe a dozen more groaning in the corner. War zone.

My heart pounds and I take a few deep breaths and fight the urge to run. I can do this. I’ve been in Redemption. I lived through two fights. It will only be an hour and then I can go home.

Amanda gives my hand a squeeze. “I know this isn’t easy for you,” she whispers. “You are the best wingman ever.”

While Amanda looks for Jake, I head over to the side of the garage where the injured are nursing their wounds. From here, I have a clear view of the ring, which consists of a few ropes strung between metal pillars. The EMT in me approves of the fighters’ protective gear—wire catcher masks and body armor, but is horrified at the sight of weapons. I blink several times. Not ordinary weapons—keyboards.

Yes, the weapon of choice in this fight club appears to be a keyboard. I should have guessed. We are in Silicon Valley, after all.

One of the fighters smashes his keyboard over the head of his much smaller but stockier opponent. A letter detaches itself from the cracked plastic and lands at my feet. S for sick. S for stomach.

I might need a bucket after all.

My arrival in the war zone is met with suspicion, but when I unwrap the first aid kit and commandeer a big bucket of ice, my patients warm to me. Or it might be my low-cut shirt.

While I ice a swollen knee, two new fighters enter the ring. The taller of the two is wearing a metal head mask resembling an upside-down trashcan with eye and mouth cutouts. I stare. It is a trashcan. He bangs two trashcan lids together like cymbals. I nickname him Oscar.

The other fighter adjusts his goalie mask and spins a vacuum cleaner hose over his head like a lasso. Somebody’s carpets won’t be cleaned tonight.

“Mac, what are you doing here?”

I spin around, my tension easing when Jake squats down beside me.

“First aid.” I hold up the partially bandaged hand of my current patient, a short, pudgy blond who can’t be over twenty-five. He looks familiar but I can’t quite place him.

Jake frowns. “Does Torment know you’re here? I can’t believe he let you step foot in this club. It’s too dangerous. If you couldn’t handle the events at Redemption, you won’t be able to handle this.”

I use my patient as an excuse to ignore Jake, and busy myself taping his fingers together. “Why is Torment fighting here?”

Jake shrugs. “He challenged Iron Fist, the fourth-ranked fighter on the underground circuit, but with Redemption closed, they decided to do a tag team match here instead. It doesn’t count toward the rankings, but he’ll get a feel for Iron Fist’s style.”

The crowd cheers and I glance over at the ring. The goalie whips his vacuum cleaner hose around his head multiple times before smacking his opponent on the legs. Oscar goes down in a cloud of dust, and his trash can helmet bangs on the concrete floor with such force it dents.

Nausea grips my gut and I focus on keeping down my supper. “I thought Torment didn’t use weapons.”

Jake doesn’t take his eyes off the fight. “He does here. It’s expected, and he likes the challenge.”

Torment uses weapons? Bile rises in my throat and my head spins. I fall back and into the wall.

“Mac? Are you okay?” Jake pulls me up and leads me over to a chair beside the door. Once I’m seated, he thrusts my head between my legs. “Breathe.”

After I take a few deep breaths, the dizziness begins to fade. I try to sit up, but Jake forces my head down. “Don’t move until I say,” he orders. “Torment is in the ring.”

“I want to see.”

“From what I’ve seen of your inability to cope with violence, you would be flat on the ground in ten seconds.”

“Please, Jake.” I try to push up, but he holds me immobile.

“I don’t like you very much at this moment,” I grate through clenched teeth.

Jake chuckles. “Is that the best you can do? I was expecting a few swear words. Amanda sure knows a lot of them.”

“She’s here. She came to see you.”

Jake snatches his hand away. “Fucking hell. Does she think I’m going to play her game? She’s the last person I want to see.”

I suck in a breath. I need to find Amanda. This is not going to play out the way she thinks. She’s going to get hurt.

The clang of metal hitting concrete rings through the garage and my heart begins to pound. What if Max gets hurt? Who will look after him? Amanda or Max? Amanda or Max?

“What weapon did the other guy choose?” I jump up and down but I can’t see over the sea of heads. “It sounds like a metal pipe. Oh, God. Someone’s going to hit Max with a metal pipe.”