No Safe Place by Richard North Patterson

father’s disgust and the puzzlement of the crowd. “Okay,” Jack said. “I think he’s punched himself out now, and he’s taking you lightly. This is your round.”
    The bell rang, and Joey almost ran across the ring. Kerry could read the contempt in his eyes, the eagerness of a bully.
    As Joey uncorked his first left hook, Kerry ducked. The left hand, a little slower now, sailed over his head, then Kerry hit the Italian boy with a left jab to the nose.
    Whack.
    Joey blinked, stunned, and Kerry hit him with three more. Blood began dribbling from Joey’s nose.
    Whack, whack, whack.
    When Joey covered his face with his gloves, Kerry started on his ribs.
    Left, right, left. Sweat flew off Kerry’s face as he drove punch after punch into Joey’s midsection. The boy gulped, swallowing hard, and his weary arms came lower.
    Kerry shot a left jab to the nose again. The shock ran through Kerry’s arm. There was a fresh spurt of blood, and suddenly the referee was between them.
    In the next three fights, Kerry never had to use his right hand to the jaw.
    He and Jack were saving that. The lesson Kerry had begun learning was that training counted, discipline mattered, and strategy paid off—he must last however long a fight had to last. It occurred to Kerry how different he was from the twelve-year-old brawler, not just in skills but in attitude. The pride he felt was new, and he carried it quietly.
    Not so his father. “You’re finally good for something,” Michael said with heavy-handed jocularity.
    When it turned out that Kerry’s opponent in the finals was a black boy, Marcus Lytton, Michael was full of interest and advice. “I’ve been watching this kid,” he told Kerry. “Flashy, with no guts. Hit him hard, and he’ll fold up like a cardboard box.” For encouragement, Michael Kilcannon put two hundred dollars on his younger son and made sure that Kerryknew it.
    When Kerry entered the ring that night, the gym was filled with blacks and Irish.
    A small fight broke out, and the cops dragged away two drunken adults, one white and one black. Kerry could feel the city’s tension simmering in the ring. He told himself to concentrate on Marcus Lytton.
    Kerry was as prepared as he could be. When Lytton threw his right, Jack had advised, he left himself open for a split second—enough time for Kerry’s own right to do real damage. But the main thing was to keep the left jab working, keep Marcus off him, pick up points.
    When they introduced Kerry, the Irish began cheering.
    For a moment, everything stopped. Kerry could feel himself and Marcus in the ring, spotlighted in the darkness, the focal point of passions far bigger than they. Then the excitement became part of him: his heart pounded, blood sounded in his temples, his slender frame filled with an energy that waited to be used. He stared at Marcus’s smooth body, close-cropped hair, serene, almost sweet face, black impenetrable eyes. The bell rang.
    Before Kerry reached the center of the ring, Marcus hit him with a three-punch combination.
    Kerry’s head snapped back. He had never seen hands this fast, had no time to think. Marcus was all over him now—left to the head, right to the stomach, a quick sideways step, then a right to the jaw. Each punch was stiff and had a purpose: Marcus Lytton was not going to punch himself out.
    The Irish had stopped cheering.
    Marcus hit Kerry in the stomach and followed with a punch to his left eye.
    Reeling backward, Kerry knew at once that the eye would close. Marcus came forward.
    Kerry ducked a left hook and shot a jab to Lytton’s mouthpiece, and the round ended.
    He walked back to his corner, the cheers resounding for Marcus, and sat on the bench. Jack squirted water on his head. “You’re going to have to get off first,” Jack said. “Jabs in his face, then look for the right. You can’t lose another round.”
    As soon as the bell rang, Kerry was across the ring. He jabbed Marcus once, then twice more. Marcus