The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) by Brian Shea (ereader manga TXT) 📕

Kelly ducked a stiff jab, avoiding taking the brunt on his chin and opting to absorb it with his forehead. It stung but in a good way, like when a football player slaps his teammate's facemask. It wakes him up, shocks him, and gets him ready for battle.

Kelly felt alert now, keyed in. He returned with a double jab of his own, the second one snapping at the bridge of Bobby's nose, grazing off the top of his glove as McDonough tried to deflect it. Bobby's head shot back.

Kelly slid in quick, and instead of chasing the head, twisted his hips hard and slammed several body blows in a barrage of upper cuts and short half hooks. The punches landed with solid thwacks of leather on skin, angling in between his friend’s elbows.

He beat the body hard, the six-ounce gloves leaving their sting. Bobby winced as the hail of punches reverberated along his ribcage.

Bobby’s hands began to lower as Kelly brought his assault up to the head.

Bobby was already against the ropes.

Kelly moved in, following up with a devastating overhand right, catching McDonough square on the chin. A retaliatory uppercut clacked Kelly's teeth together and, even though he was wearing a mouth guard, sent a shockwave through his head. Dizzied, Kelly staggered backward.

His friend launched off the ropes, pouncing like a cornered stray, and began swinging wildly.

Kelly brought his gloves up as his head cleared, trained instinct protecting him. His gloved hands were now in front of his face, shifting slightly to block his temples as a flurry of blows rained down from all sides. Kelly had a good guard, a tight guard, rounding his shoulders forward, tucking his chin deep. He absorbed the punishment, biding his time.

McDonough was head hunting, not wasting any time on the body. This worked to Kelly’s advantage. He was able to raise his elbows and deflect the majority of the attack through his forearms.

Through his defensive posture, Kelly saw McDonough's eyes, wild with rage. He was fighting like he was on the street, like he was drunk, and Kelly wondered if maybe he was. His punches were sloppy and uncharacteristically wild.

Kelly saw a window of opportunity as McDonough’s energy waned. The wide-angled swing was telegraphed.

Kelly slipped inside his friend's punch, catching it with his left arm at his elbow joint, dissipating its effectiveness. McDonough’s glove grazed off the side of Kelly's head. With lightening quick speed, Kelly unloaded his right hand, driving an overhand right that clipped the bottom end of McDonough's chin at the cleft.

Instead of spinning his head, it drove it downward. Kelly shot an uppercut that caught him in the eye. McDonough fell flat on his back, not unconscious but certainly dazed.

Kelly backed off and walked to a neutral corner just as the buzzer sounded.

McDonough sat up, pulled his mouthpiece out. "Didn't see that coming!"

He smiled. There were no hard feelings in the ring.

"Think it's time we grab a beer?" McDonough offered.

"The way you were swinging, it looks like you've already gotten a head start," Kelly fired back as he walked over and reached out his gloved hand. McDonough grabbed it and Kelly pulled him up.

"Maybe I have." He laughed.

McDonough didn't live by their rules. He didn't have a normal day job. Working for the most dangerous mob boss in Boston meant you didn't have to live like regular folk. It'd been a long while since McDonough dared enter Pops' gym with a little bit of booze in his system. The father figure permitted them to drink out back, but he didn't tolerate it inside the gym, and he definitely didn't tolerate it from somebody in the ring.

"Let's head out back."

The group grabbed their gear bags and made their way out into the cold, throwing on hooded sweatshirts. The biting cold air actually felt good against their body heat.

They sat on the back stoop and waited while Brown grabbed the cooler from his trunk and served up the cans. Kelly looked at the label’s design, a patterned swirl of purple spiraling out from a sunglass-wearing ghost in orange. He didn’t recognize the brand, Kasper’s Ghost IPA, but it seemed as though a new microbrew popped up every day.

He popped the top and took a long sip. The carbonation coupled with the bitterness burned the back of his throat.

McDonough took a seat next to Kelly.

"You and I need to talk before we're through here tonight," Kelly whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

McDonough cracked open his beer and took a swig. Kelly knew his friend heard him, but he offered nothing in return.

"Seriously," Kelly said. “You’re not leaving until we talk.”

"Yeah, I figured as much."

20

The cold bite of the air had cut short their post-boxing commiseration. As Brown and O'Brien headed to their vehicles, Kelly lagged behind with McDonough. Each had an unopened IPA in hand. Brown had handed them one before leaving.

"Bobby, got a second?" Kelly called over to his friend.

McDonough turned, his face pained, knowing very well the topic of conversation. "I'll give you a minute or two, but I can't stay long, Mike."

“Fair enough.” Kelly double-tapped the key fob unlocking the doors to his Caprice. McDonough eyed him. “What? It’s cold. Besides, it’s not like you’re sitting in the back seat.”

Kelly entered the unmarked detective car as McDonough slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door.

McDonough cracked open the can of beer. The fragrant fruitiness of the Kasper’s Ghost IPA filled the compartment. “First time getting to drink beer in a cruiser. Feels good.”

Kelly laughed, glad his friend’s sense of humor was intact, then opened his can and took a long slow sip. It had a bitter aftertaste, but Kelly’s taste buds had adjusted to the unique flavor, and he was starting to enjoy it.

McDonough slurped, and then turned to look at his friend. "All right. So out with it. What gives? And feel free to kick on the heat anytime you want. It’s only twenty degrees out."

Kelly started the engine, responding to his