Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,83
There was a path forward, there had to be. After the Washburn Mill exploded, killing everyone inside, the owners rebuilt without hesitation. They won awards, launched Gold Mill Flour, and orchestrated a series of mergers to become General Mills, an empire worth more than seven billion. Strike would thrive, too. We were a phoenix waiting to be born from the ashes.
The fights began, and the blood started to flow. The fighters—scenting millions in the air, the promise of those giant, cardboard checks—assaulted each other with everything they had. The combos blurred together, each punch and kick more punishing than the last. They went for ribs and jaws, they attacked the soft flesh of stomachs and breasts, they beat each other into the ropes. Noses broke, spraying the mats with blood, which was replayed on the jumbotron to a deafening soundtrack of yells and groans. Medics waited on the sidelines, stretchers and ambulances at the ready, but no one was throwing this fight. They staggered and weaved, coming back with hooks and roundhouses on flesh turning to pulp, giving it all for the stakes of their lives.
Booming commentary filled the stadium. The crowd turned thunderous. They shouted with every slow-motion hit on the giant screens, where the continuous Twitter feeds scrolled through reactions, pictures, and excitement. A hashtag began emerging, though, filtering through the noise.
“Haven’t seen the queen??!! #StrikeDown #WheresLogan”
“Umm … looking for the original face of Strike.”
“I drove from #Utah for this and I need me some #LoganRusso!!!”
“Waiting for the Mill City Miracle up in here!! Where is she????”
The #WheresLogan hashtag started trending, taking over. Signs popped up across the sections and pictures of the shadow figure behind the Strike glove were posting everywhere. C.J. had the PR team begin monitoring the feed, weeding out as many mentions of Logan as they could and replacing them with round updates. Their fingers flew, trying desperately to influence the content, but the demands for Logan would not be drowned out.
Three hours later, Merritt’s fight with the Brazilian was due to begin in the center ring and she appeared on the floor with her intricate braids now shimmering in a full spectrum of red, white, and blue, drawing cheers and fist pumps as she waved into the flashing lights.
The shirt under my jacket was soaked in a cold sweat. I made myself breathe. “How are we going to spin this?”
“Spin? Gregg, where is she? We don’t have a contingency plan for Logan Russo vanishing into thin air.” C.J. was furiously texting, following me to the press box where a dozen sports reporters expected to interview Logan about her anticipated pick for the next face of Strike.
“We’ll make a contingency plan. I am not letting her fucking win.”
I felt C.J. looking at me, but she said nothing. She understood. She had to. Logan was sabotaging her company, too. She didn’t say another word until we got to the box, and then affixed a smile on her face, greeting every reporter by name and deflecting the barrage of questions about Logan. Just before we sat down, I got a call from Detective Li.
“We’ve received some new information.”
“Where is she?” I spoke through a clenched jaw, nodding at no one through the forest of ESPN cameras.
“We put out an APB on her plates and got a hit right away. Local officers identified her car abandoned in a suburban parking lot. Lebanon Hills Regional Park.”
“Where?” Turning as casually as I could away from the reporters, each of whom seemed to have grown six extra ears, I paced to an empty corner of the room.
“Do you know the area?” he asked.
I was more familiar with Beirut. “I have no idea where that is. Is she there? Did you find her?”
“No. It’s almost two thousand wooded acres. We’ve got people canvassing the trails, but we’re losing the sun. Do you have any idea what your wife would be doing in Eagan?”
The name was vaguely familiar, part of the ring of nondescript suburbs where they housed cheap twenty-four-hour gyms in strip malls. He asked me a few more things, routine questions that seemed anything but routine as I struggled to place Logan in an obscure, wooded park. Had she decided to bury the money? Burn it?
After the call, C.J. and I went through the motions with the press. Logan was indisposed. Pivot. She was incredibly grateful to every fan and fighter, and wished she could be here tonight to make the announcement about the next face of Strike. Unfortunately, I