She knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Shane.”

I bent down and kissed Marcy’s forehead.

“I’ll be back.”

Lisa followed me into the hallway.

“You promised her.”

“I promised her three nights ago.”

“And what happens if you end up arrested?”

I stopped.

“Then call Gabe.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Titan’s Forge occupied an old warehouse between an auto-body shop and a tire distributor.

I walked in at 6:17 p.m.

Music shook the walls.

Dustin was beside the cage talking to Perry Cox, the gym’s head trainer.

He saw me almost immediately.

His smile disappeared.

“Where’s Marcy?”

I stopped about ten feet away.

“Hospital.”

Perry looked between us.

Dustin shrugged.

“She fell.”

I stared at him.

“Say it again.”

He smiled.

“Your daughter fell.”

Three men moved away from the wall behind me.

I heard them before I saw them.

Perry raised one hand.

“Sir, you need to leave.”

“I’m leaving.”

I looked at Dustin.

“You’re going to stay away from my daughter.”

Dustin laughed.

“Or what?”

I turned toward the door.

One of the men blocked it.

That changed the situation.

I looked at Perry.

“Tell him to move.”

Perry shook his head.

“You came into the wrong gym, old man.”

I was fifty-eight.

My knees reminded me of it every morning.

My right shoulder had been repaired twice.

I hadn’t fought competitively in decades.

But the four men around me made a mistake I’d watched young Marines make thousands of times.

They thought fighting was about anger.

It isn’t.

It’s about position.

The first man reached for me.

I moved.

After that, everything happened quickly.

I didn’t chase anyone. I didn’t throw wild punches. I kept my balance, controlled distance, and used their momentum when they rushed.

Perry went down against a padded bench.

Another man stumbled into the cage.

The third stopped advancing after I put him on the floor and stepped away.

Dustin lasted longer.

He was younger.

Faster.

Stronger than me.

But he telegraphed almost everything.

When it was over, he was sitting against the cage holding his shoulder.

I was breathing harder than I wanted him to see.

I crouched several feet away.

“Listen carefully.”

Dustin glared at me.

“Stay away from Marcy.”

“You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“Royce?”

That got his attention.

I stood.

“Tell your uncle Shane Jones says hello.”

Then I walked out.

I thought I’d changed the balance.

I had.

Just not in the way I expected.

Royce Clark Didn’t Need to Touch Me

Two days later, a black SUV sat across from our house for forty minutes.

The following morning, another one appeared outside Lisa’s hospital.

Then my boss called me into his office.

Frank had owned the furniture shop for nineteen years.

He wouldn’t look at me.

“I have to let you go.”

“Why?”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Don’t make me say it.”

I closed the office door.

“Did Royce Clark contact you?”

Frank’s eyes lifted.

That was enough.

“What did he threaten?”

“My wife.”

I didn’t ask anything else.

I packed my tools.

That evening, I found Marcy sitting on our back porch wearing the same gray sweatshirt she’d worn the day I first noticed the bruises.

She looked at my toolboxes.

“You lost your job.”

“I’ll find another one.”

“Because of me.”

I set the boxes down.

“No.”

“Dad—”

“Because of Royce.”

She stared at the floorboards.

I sat beside her.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then I looked at that sweatshirt.

Royce wasn’t trying to beat me.

He was trying to teach me that he could reach everything around me.

My daughter.

My wife.

My livelihood.

And that meant there was no point waiting for him to stop.

The next morning, I called Gabe.

“Tell me everything you know about Royce’s fights.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going inside.”

Larry Perkins

Gabe called me insane.

Then he called me back six hours later.

This time, he had someone with him.

Special Agent Linda Kane had been investigating Royce Clark for years.

We met in the back room of a diner forty miles from my house.

Linda was in her early forties, dressed like an accountant, and spoke without wasting words.

“We know he runs illegal gambling.”

“Then arrest him.”

“Knowing isn’t proving.”

She slid a folder toward me.

“People close enough to see the records don’t talk.”

I didn’t touch the folder.

“What do you need?”

“Access.”

I leaned back.

“And you think he’ll give it to me?”

Linda looked at Gabe.

Then at me.

“No.”

I smiled.

“Good.”

Larry Perkins appeared two weeks later.

I grew my beard longer, darkened some of the gray, changed the way I dressed, and started visiting the kinds of gyms where nobody asked many questions.

Larry was a broke former serviceman.

Divorced.

No steady work.

Needed cash.

Could fight.

Eventually the right person noticed.

My first underground fight took place behind a closed trucking depot.

No cameras allowed.

Cash only.

I won.

Then I won again.

By the third week, someone asked if I’d fight for Royce Clark.

I said yes.

Royce watched my fourth fight from a folding chair beside the ring.

He was nothing like Dustin.

No tattoos above his collar.

No shouting.

No threats.

He wore a blue button-down shirt and drank bottled water.

Afterward, he approached me.

“Larry Perkins?”

“That’s me.”

He studied my face.

“Military?”

“Long time ago.”

“Marines?”

I shrugged.

Royce smiled.

“I like veterans.”

“Everybody says that until it’s time to pay us.”

He laughed.

For the next two weeks, I became useful.

I fought.

I listened.

I remembered names.

Linda had given me strict instructions: don’t be a hero, don’t provoke anyone, and don’t touch records unless I could do it without exposing myself.

So I waited.

Cash moved through the fights.

Bets were recorded.

Payments went to people who weren’t fighters.

Certain names appeared repeatedly.

I passed what I could to Linda.

Then I fought a man named Brenton.

Halfway through the second round, I used a particular shoulder turn I’d used at Titan’s Forge.

Royce saw it.

After the fight, two men escorted me into an office.

Royce was sitting behind a metal desk.

A photograph lay in front of him.

It showed me outside Titan’s Forge.

No beard.

No Larry Perkins.

Just Shane Jones.

Royce tapped it.

“You should’ve changed your walk.”

I didn’t answer.

“Larry Perkins doesn’t exist.”

“Apparently not.”

Royce smiled.

“You beat up my nephew.”

“Your nephew put my daughter in a hospital.”