“Perfect,” I say and climb into the cabin.
The pilot gives a half salute and fires the helicopter back up.
Colt leans forward in his seat. He’s got on a UFC ball cap and a blue sweatshirt for some gym. I have to hope if this helicopter is suspected, the Vigilantes won’t do anything drastic with two civilians on board.
“We sent six choppers in random directions,” Colt says. “Good to see you again.”
“How is that lovely girl of yours?” I ask. “I didn’t get to meet her in Vegas but I’ve seen her in the ring with you after matches.” MMA fighting was popular in the viewing room at Ridley Prison.
“She’s good. We’re good,” Colt says. “So what sort of tangle have you gotten yourself into?”
“You can’t even imagine,” I say, scanning the sky. A helicopter in such close proximity to that safe house and its power outage is going to be noticed. Too bad civilian copters can’t be cloaked. I have to hope The Cure’s idea of scrambling six of them will be effective.
I don’t see any imminent danger. The skies are clear.
“Where are we headed?” Colt asks.
“I’m hoping you can tell me that,” I say. “I’m trying to find a woman who was at an MMA fight in Vegas on July 28.”
“Just as a spectator or does she know a fighter?”
“I’m not sure. But there was an altercation that got caught on a lot of cell phones.”
“Not sure I recall that,” Colt says. “But let’s see what we can track down.” He opens a compartment next to his seat and lifts up a computer. “Okay, that night the lead fight was Hendrickson vs. Jones. Opener was Peters vs. Lukov.”
“Lukov?” Jovana’s last name is Lukova, the female version of the surname.
“Yup. He actually won that one. He was a non-UFC contender and got in on that fight.”
“What’s he done since then?”
“Prepared for a big match that’s coming up,” Colt pauses. “In two days. In Nashville.”
“Can you pull up that footage from the July fight?”
“Oh, yeah, tons of hits on that if you search. It went a little viral.” Colt brings up a video. The video opens with a title slide that reads “CUTE RUSSIAN GIRL SLAMS DUDE AT MMA FIGHT.”
The footage starts on a fight. Some lean, muscular boy is being declared a winner. The Jumbotron above him shows his face and he points into the crowd. Whoever’s filming follows his finger and there she is, Jovana, jumping up and down. Her face shows up on the giant screen.
An arm comes around her neck. I see a flash of blond hair. The image blurs, then comes back into focus as a man tries to drag Jovana from the stands.
Hell. It’s Klaus. He looks rather healthy for someone who died three months prior.
The Jumbotron goes back to the fighter, but the man with his shaky phone footage stays on Jovana and Klaus. She tries to stay by her seat, but Klaus yanks on her arm. She executes a perfect judo throw, flipping him over so that he lands on his back on the stairs.
The crowd reacts, and a man’s voice, probably the one making the video, says, “That had to hurt.”
I bet. I was on the receiving end of one of those that last time I saw Jovana, the night I killed Singer. Despite all those months together, I didn’t know she was combat trained until then.
The video ends.
“Did the woman go to other fights of his?” I ask.
“No way to tell,” Colt says. He does some quick searches, but nothing else comes up. “You want to go to his fight in Nashville? I can get you tickets.”
I settle back in the seat. “I’ll get in,” I say. Forging a ticket is something I can do without any need for tech and I don’t want Colt tied to me if anything goes south. “This chopper can’t get as far as Nashville.”
“I’ve made it to Albuquerque before,” Colt says. “I can arrange for a car for you there, or another chopper.”
