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The Champion

By Cris Fireheart / Ken Anderson

Chapter 4 - AMBUSH!

Author's note: This story contains scenes of extreme violence, profanity, drug and alcohol use, sale, and abuse, and some sexual situations. Reader discretion is DEFINITELY advised. That being said, if none of that bothers you, then enjoy! Don't forget to leave me a comment or a vote if you like it!

It's time to get things started...

–C

As the group of friends continued their steady approach to Benny's Diner, the tension in the air around them seemed to grow thicker with each step they took. In the back of his mind, Ricky had an anxious, unnerving feeling about what was going to happen; but he kept his words to himself as he quickly remembered that he had two of the city's finest enforcers at his side, not to mention one of its more well-known and notorious gangsters. The thought forced him to let out a short chuckle, as he shook his head at the realization of his own stupidity.

Jake Clayton wasn't the only 'King' involved in this deal; Marco Binetti could, and would, personally deal with anyone who tried to cross his 'Family,' and Ricky was a trained soldier, and far from some average street thug himself. He hadn't become the 'underground King' by kissing any asses; he was well-known and was always ready and willing to throw down with the best of them.

The short, stocky man felt a slight grin tugging at his lips as his confidence began to return in earnest, as he stepped forward to grasp the tarnished brass handle which would open the door that led into Benny's. Turning to face Jake and the twins, he gave a slight nod of his head, which they all returned, before reaching out and pulling open the old, rusted door, and feeling a blast of cooking smoke assault his senses as they all took turns stepping inside.

The interior of Benny's Diner was as dirty and grimy as it had always been. While its exterior had been given a slight makeover, courtesy of of the City Council and its current mayor, the old Bison himself had demanded that the interior of his business remain completely untouched. Old, lime-green paint was chipped and falling from the walls and the ceiling; the dusty wooden tables scattered haphazardly around the place were completely covered in marked and clawed-in graffiti, and as usual, a thick haze of cooking and cigar smoke permeated the atmosphere, serving as a reminder to any customer who wandered in in search of food that this place was a part of the older, grimier Harbor City, and had no intentions of becoming one of the City Council's so-called “revitalization" projects.

As the four friends stepped into the smoky atmosphere of the obviously deserted diner, the first sight that greeted them was that of Old Benny himself, the large bison giving them all respectful nods as he kept his thick arms crossed over the greasy apron which covered his chest. As if on some unspoken cue, his son Dave silently emerged from the pair of swinging doors which led back into the kitchen, holding four bottles of locally-brewed beer that he expertly removed the caps from using his hoof-tipped fingers, before handing them out to the new arrivals, and quickly joining his father at his side.

“'Sup, Jake?" he nodded towards the coyote with a warm smile, “Haven't seen you 'round here in a while. Heard you've been doin' alright these days..."

“Yeah; I know," Jake nodded in response, taking a long pull from his beer, before exhaling and nodding back towards the pair. “We haven't really kept up with each other since that time when we were in juvie together... I'm sorry for that, man, really, but we all know that some pretty crazy shit went down back then..."

Benny and Dave both nodded their heads solemnly, their gazes falling to the unswept, claw-marked floorboards below.

“Yeah; we know, man..." Dave nodded once more, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So... Are they here?" Jake asked, as his mind suddenly went from nostalgia back to the business at paw.

Benny let out an irritable snort as he nodded his horns towards the farthest table at the back of the diner. “Got here 'bout an hour ago, pup," he mumbled in his thick, smoke-stained voice, “And between you and me, somethin' don't smell right about those cats. You expectin' any trouble?"

Jake simply shrugged his shoulders in response, before lifting up the front of his tank-top to reveal the butt of his pistol. “I couldn't really tell you, old man. But I CAN tell you that Ricky, over here--" he pointed a claw towards the human at his side, “is feeling like something seems seriously off, and his 'feelings' about these kind of things are usually right."

Stepping closer to the larger pair of Bison, the determined coyote locked eyes with Benny, as a look of firm resolve began to form across his normally smirking muzzle. He opened his mouth to speak:

“If anything DOES happen, are WE going to be okay?"

The simple, direct sentence cause Benny to take in a deep, wheezing breath, before letting it out in a sigh of resignation.

“Kid, you know the rules, just like anybody else who uses my place of business for shit like this... But I'll tell you ONE thing... If these cats try anything FIRST, then you an' your boys got my permission to open up on em' all you want. Just remember that you're gonna have to pay for any damages." The old bison gave the young coyote a slight wink and a toothy smirk.

“Now, go and see what they wanna do," he muttered quietly towards Jake, “They sent Jonny 'Scars' and a couple of Rhahs's other goons to back him up for this job. If there's anything left if something has to happen, there's plenty of room in the freezer out back for the cleanup."

Jake acknowledged the older bison's response with a silent nod, smiling lightly towards the pair as he nudged Ricky's shoulder to get the younger man's attention.

“Get the bag from Ike. Make sure those two keep their safeties off; paws on the grips. I know who Jonny 'Scars' is; he's one of the Pride's Captains. If this guy tries to fuck us over, I want us to be ready to rack em' and stack em', NO hesitation. This old cat's got a street rep that's on par with me and Marco put together. That should tell you all you need to know."

Ricky quickly nodded his head in understanding, before turning to relay the orders to the twin tigers. Ike silently handed over the duffel bag, which Ricky slung over his left shoulder, as the two of them heard the soft 'clicks' of pistol safeties being released from behind them. With Jake at his side, he stepped confidently through the empty dining room, towards the lone table in the back, which was currently occupied by three large, impatient-looking lions. One of them, who stood a head or two larger than his cohorts, slowly rose himself from the cheap metal folding chair he'd been sitting in to greet them with a toothy smile of sharpened and whitened fangs.

True to his moniker, Jonny 'Scars' sported innumerable cuts and patches devoid of fur on his face and his thick arms. Wearing a simple gold-colored T-shirt and dusty black jeans, the chosen colors of the Pride, he made a show of opening his arms out widely as the group continued their approach.

“Jakob fuckin' Clayton!" he exclaimed in his deep, bass-like voice. “Didn't expect YOU to show up for this job, pup! And I see you've brought Mr. “People's Champ" over there with you..." he let out the last words in a snarl of disgust.

Unlike Jake and his father, or even Marco and his Family, the feline gangs of Harbor City had always been known for not only being fiercely territorial, but heavily specieist as well. Jake himself had first learned that lesson back when he'd attended Harbor Hills High school, selling pot and other drugs to all of the different students who littered the campus. The Canines hated the Felines. The Herbivores tended to side with the Canines for protection and strength in numbers. And the Felines? They hated everybody and anybody who couldn't be directly identified as a 'pure' member of any one of their many subspecies; even their own hybrids got the short end of the metaphorical stick. It was a well and truly fucked situation; one that had continued to this day.

From behind Jake and Ricky, Mike and Ike could be heard letting out a pair of deep, chest-rumbling growls as they approached the table. Sensing their hostility, Ricky quickly turned back to face them, giving a single shake of his head before returning his attention to the group of lions seated across from them. Fortunately for them all, Jake had taken notice as well, and he held up a paw to silence them as he continued his march up to the dusty, grafitti-scarred surface, before placing both paws firmly down upon the table with enough force to make it slightly tremble on its uneven legs.

“Jonny 'Scars!' Mr “Knife-fight" himself, if I'm remembering you right," the young coyote sneered defiantly, bearing his own fangs as he locked eyes with the taller lion. “So, old Iggy sent YOU to pick up from us? Personally, I would've thought he might send Henry; at least HE and I can get along."

Scars let out a low growl as his eyes narrowed in rage. Jake, however, remained unperturbed, not giving even an inch as he matched the older gangster's gaze; the old lion continuing to stare him down.

“The boss's younger son is currently in class at Harbor City University," he muttered through gritted teeth. “He sends his regards. Now, do you have what we came all the way down to this shithole for?"

A deep rumble of anger from Benny echoed from behind them as Ricky sauntered up to the table and set down the bag, before leaning his elbows onto the wood and slamming his beer bottle down onto the table with a resounding 'smack.'

“Five pieces each, pure snow, and some of the finest green that Harbor City has to offer. Marco and your boss have already worked out the details, but you already knew that. So... You got our money, kitty cat?" he answered with a smirk, taking a long pull from his beer bottle as he eyed the trio of felines threateningly. He may not have had size or strength over any of them, and he knew this, but he trusted in his friends and his own combat skills well enough to know that whatever hell would come from his insult, he could handle it.

Jonny Scars let out a scoff and gave a slight tilt of his head, which caused his two cohorts to rise up from their seats and take their places at his sides. Snarling slightly, he stood up to his full height and spoke:

“Well, now, here's the thing about THAT... The boss DID give us the money; it's right outside in the trunk of our car, as a matter of fact! But US?" The snarl of rage which exited the older lion's muzzle began to grow deeper in volume as his eyes narrowed and his claws began to twitch.

“We ain't givin' you half-breed bastards SHIT!"

In that instant, the lion gripped the heavy table in his thick paws, and effortlessly flipped it onto its side, sending the duffel bag tumbling to the floor as he and his goons quickly ducked down behind their newfound cover. Ricky could hear the telltale sounds of pistol slides racking rounds in place as his eyes suddenly went wide, and his training kicked in. Acting on instinct, he shoulder-tackled Jake to the other side of the smoke-filled dining room, before dropping his beer and reaching for his own weapon as the bottle crashed noisily to the floor below.

“AMBUSH!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, as he and his two best enforcers quickly prepared their own firearms and began to pepper the table's heavy surface with bullets. “FUCK!" he heard the coyote yell out in rage and shock, as he scrambled to get back to his paws while Ricky and the others took the opportunity to turn over a pair of nearby tables as well, in a feeble attempt at providing SOME sort of cover from the coming onslaught.

“I fuckin' knew these bastards were gonna pull some shit like this!" Jake yelled as he rolled into a crouch behind the overturned table where Ricky had chosen to conceal himself.

“What'd you expect?! YOU'RE the one who always told me to NEVER TRUST THE FUCKIN' RHAHS!"

“Yeah, and I ALSO told Marco and my Dad that making this deal was a BAD FUCKIN' IDEA! Obviously, I was outvoted!"

The twin tigers, Mike and Ike, had quickly taken cover behind an overturned table of their own. Benny and Dave, the pair of bison who'd given permission to use their joint for the deal, had quickly leapt over the solid granite bar behind them, and were lying prone on the floor as the gunfire had begun to erupt in earnest around them. One of the lions, whose mane had been dyed a deep shade of green, suddenly stood up from behind their cover. A snarl on his muzzle, he began to slowly march towards Ricky and Jake, firing off a shot every few steps to ensure that the two would have to keep their heads down as he approached.

He never saw the fatal shots coming.

Lying prone on his back, Ricky used his legs to push the top half of his body along the floor, the pistol in his left hand barking out its deadly song as he'd emptied his entire magazine into the feline's chest. With a loud roar of pain, the thug fell to the ground, motionless, as Ricky scrambled to get back behind the table where Jake had remained crouched, panting heavily with the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins.

“I got one!" The young man shouted, as he reached out a hand to retrieve the fresh magazine that his friend was suddenly holding out towards him.

“GOOD! That means we're two-to-one now! Keep shooting, and whatever you do, DON'T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THAT FUCKIN' BAG!"

With those words, Jake rose steadily up from behind their chosen cover, and began to unleash the heavy, penetrating rounds from his Desert Eagle, each one punching solid, gaping holes through the thick wood of the table that hid Jonny Scars and his remaining henchman.

“Fuckin' mutt bastard!" came the older lion's roar as he flinched and attempted to avoid the lethal rounds which whizzed past his head and cut a path through one corner of his thick mane. When he'd come within five feet of the table, Jake suddenly stopped to reload. As he was fumbling with the fresh magazine in his paws, he failed to notice as Jonny's underling suddenly leapt to his feet and fired off a trio of rounds in his general direction.

The sound of Jake's scream of pain brought Ricky back into the fight, Mike and Ike also rising up from behind their own table to empty their weapons at the lion who'd fired at Jake. The feline quickly crumpled to the ground in a heap, his body riddled with holes as a thick pool of blood began to form beneath him.

A growl of anger suddenly came from behind the bullet-riddled table in front of them as Jonny Scars rose to his feet and began firing, a pair of sleek, black pistols gripped tightly in his paws. Ricky quickly ducked back behind his own table, as the older lion began to place shot after accurate shot in the direction of him and his two friends. Mike, the larger of the two tiger twins, went down with a roar as a bullet tore its way through his left shoulder. His brother, fearing the worst, dropped his own weapon as he reached for his twin's leg and struggled to drag him back behind cover.

Ricky was about to duck out and deliver a few rounds of his own in response, when he suddenly heard the familiar sound of a pistol hammer being manually pulled into place above him. Turning his head slowly, he looked up to see Jonny Scars staring down at him, a snarl on his muzzle and a gun in his paw. In that instant, Ricky also noticed that the older lion had the duffel bag slung securely over one shoulder, and he could almost feel his heart drop in his chest as he stared down the barrel of his opponent's well-oiled .40 caliber pistol.

“Well...shit," he muttered under his breath, setting his own gun onto the floor in front of him. “If you're gonna do it, old cat, just get it over with. At this point, I'm pretty much fucked either way."

Sneering, with a look of superiority drawn across his scarred muzzle, Scars slowly de-cocked his pistol with a claw, before lowering his thick arm back down to his side.

“You took two of ours. I took two of yours. If you're lucky, the inked-up mutt might well survive if the medics get here in time, soldier-boy."

With a parting glare, the scarred-up old lion stepped past Ricky, ignoring Ike, who was busy tending to his brother's wound, and marched directly over to the diner's rusted, heavy door. Before he made his exit, however, he turned around to give the young man one last ultimatum.

“Rhah Pride runs the Southside now, 'Champ.' But don't worry; I'll be waiting for ya if you ever want a rematch."

The heavy metal door closed with a resounding 'thud' as the older gangster made his way out into the alleyway beyond. His mind reeling, Ricky barely managed to pull himself together just enough to run over to Jake's side. The coyote had been shot three times; once in a shoulder, and twice directly in the chest. Ricky could hear his lungs rattle with blood as one of his best friends struggled to draw breath. Cursing himself for being so stupid, the young man quickly retrieved his cell phone from his side pocket, and with shaking hands, began to dial the first of two phone numbers that he'd silently hoped to never have to call...

-HARBOR CITY GENERAL HOSPITAL, THE NEXT MORNING...-

The steady hum and beep of the EKG machine sounded like a form of mental torture.

Ricky, his legs shaking restlessly, sat nervously in a barely-cushioned metal folding chair as he silently looked over the body of one of his oldest and closest friends. Jake Clayton was lying motionless on his hospital bed, with multiple tubes connected to IV drugs and an oxygen tank making sure that the injured coyote remained unconscious and steadily breathing, as his chest continued to rise and fall involuntarily.

Mike had gotten off easy; the tiger's wound had been a single shot through the tough muscle of his left shoulder, which had been quickly stitched up and bandaged upon arrival. He and his twin brother had left the hospital against medical advice the night before, both promising to fill Connor and Teddy in on the disastrous events which had unfolded at Benny's Diner.

But Ricky knew why they'd been so quick to leave. He'd also known why he couldn't dare to get up from his own seat next to Jake's bed. It was like his time in the Marine Corps all over again. It hadn't needed to be said; He'd FUCKED UP. It had been HIM who was supposed to make sure that the deal had gone down the way that it should have. Even though he'd done his best to protect and support his friends; tried his hardest to ensure their safety, in his heart and mind, he 'just knew.'"

In the eyes of James Clayton and Marco Binetti, this clusterfuck could only be seen as HIS fault. And so, after calling Connor himself and telling him to stay put back at the apartment with Ted, he'd sat down in the uncomfortable chair, and he'd waited.

He'd waited for the punishment that he KNEW would be coming for him.

Marco and Jake's father, James, had been the first phone calls he'd had to make after that fateful event.

And now...

Now, as he stared once again over the comatose body of his friend, he sat and he waited...

He waited patiently for the death sentence that he was sure would come...

---

--End Chapter 4--

--Sorry if this one seems a little short on detail, but I've got three more to bang out during the next couple of days, now that my setup is "set up" again. . I hope you all enjoy this final book of my Harbor City trilogy. Again, you don't have to read them all in any particular order. These are meant to be read in any order you choose. C&J, Wasted Youth and The Family, which will be combined to serve as a bridge, and finally, The Champion.

--Kris.