Chapter 4: The Underworld
The knock on my front door came at 6:00 AM the next morning.
I was sitting at the kitchen island, drinking black coffee, fully dressed. Lisa stood behind me, her arms crossed, her face a mask of legal armor. We had spent the night reviewing our options with a defense attorney.
I opened the door to find two plainclothes detectives. The older one, Detective Roosevelt Kent, looked tired, carrying the weight of a man who had seen too many bodies. His partner, Detective Sue Shepard, looked sharp and hungry for an arrest.
“Shane Jones?” Kent asked, flashing a badge. “We need to talk about an incident at Titan’s Forge yesterday afternoon.”
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside.
We sat at the dining table. Kent pulled out a battered notebook. “Five men are currently in the hospital, Mr. Jones. Perry Cox has a fractured jaw and three broken ribs. Lamar Duncan has severe internal bruising. Brenton Cantrell has a ruptured eardrum. Andres White’s ACL and MCL are completely torn. And Dustin Freeman is looking at reconstructive facial surgery.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, my tone utterly flat.
Shepard leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Multiple witnesses filmed you assaulting them, Mr. Jones. We have it from four different angles.”
“You have footage of me defending myself,” I corrected calmly. “I entered a public business. Five men surrounded me. They made verbal threats regarding my life. One of them attacked me with a weapon. The others initiated physical violence. I utilized the minimum necessary force my training allowed to neutralize the immediate threat.”
Kent raised an eyebrow. “Your training?”
“Fifteen years in the Marine Corps. Force Recon. Then I was a primary hand-to-hand combat instructor at Quantico. I have three combat deployments. Would you like me to provide my service jacket?”
The detectives exchanged a long look.
“Here’s the problem, Mr. Jones,” Kent sighed, rubbing his temples. “Mr. Freeman’s uncle, Royce Clark, has filed a formal complaint. He is demanding that the district attorney press charges for aggravated assault and attempted murder.”
“Royce Clark,” I took a sip of my coffee. “The head of the Southside Vipers. A man who runs illicit gambling, racketeering, and extortion rings. I’m surprised he wants police attention on his family’s gym.”
Shepard’s posture stiffened. “What do you know about Royce Clark?”
“Only what a concerned father can find online,” I lied smoothly. “I’m just curious why a known criminal kingpin is asking for police intervention instead of handling it in the streets. Unless, of course, he’s worried that an official investigation into the gym might expose the illegal betting books they keep in the back office.”
The room went dead silent. Kent stared at me, a flicker of respect—and fear—in his eyes.
“We’ll need you to come down to the precinct and give a formal statement on the record,” Kent finally said, standing up. “Bring your lawyer.”
“Of course.”
After they left, Lisa gripped my shoulder. “They’re going to charge you, Shane.”
“No, they won’t,” I said, looking out the window at the quiet suburban street. “Self-defense is clear on the video. No jury would convict a father defending himself against five gang members. But this isn’t over. Royce Clark doesn’t use the police for justice. He uses them for pressure.”
I was right.
Four hours later, I walked into the furniture warehouse. My boss, Jarvis Hall, a good man who had built the business from scratch, was waiting in my office. He looked physically ill.
“Shane,” Jarvis wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Someone came to see me this morning. Three men in suits. One of them introduced himself as Royce Clark.”
My jaw tightened. “What did he say, Jarvis?”
“He said… he said you caused some trouble for his family. He told me that it’s very bad for business when a company employs violent individuals. He suggested that if your truck was still in the parking lot tomorrow, my warehouse might suffer a tragic electrical fire.” Jarvis finally looked up, his eyes wet. “I have a family, Shane. I have thirty employees.”
“I understand,” I said softly, taking off my work apron.
“I’m giving you three months severance,” Jarvis choked out. “I’m so sorry, Shane.”
“Don’t be. You’re doing the right thing.”
I drove home, my mind shifting gears. Royce Clark was applying pressure to my flanks. He wanted to isolate me, ruin my livelihood, and force me to come to him on my knees begging for mercy. It was a classic insurgency tactic.
But I had fought insurgents before. When your enemy attacks your flanks, you don’t defend. You attack his center.
Three days later, I was no longer Shane Jones. I had buzzed my hair down to the scalp. I stopped shaving, letting a scruffy, unkempt beard grow. I bought cheap, ill-fitting clothes from a thrift store. I looked like a washed-up veteran who had lost his battle with the bottle.
I walked into a dive bar called The Cage, deep in Viper territory. It was a known hangout for Royce’s low-level recruiters. I ordered a cheap beer, sat in the corner, and waited. Over the next week, I became a fixture. I let slip to the bartender that I was an ex-military guy with bad debts and a need for quick, under-the-table cash.
Finally, a man named Dixon, a mid-level Viper enforcer, slid into the booth across from me.
“Bartender says your name is Larry,” Dixon said, chewing on a toothpick. “Says you used to be a tough guy. Says you need money.”
“Life is expensive,” I slurred slightly, playing the part. “Alimony. Bad decisions. Yeah, I can handle myself. I just need a payday.”
Dixon looked at me, a wolf assessing a wounded deer. “We run some… unsanctioned exhibitions. Entertainment for private clients. Five grand just to step into the cage. Twenty grand if you win. You interested, Larry?”
“Point me at the cage.”
“Come with me. My boss wants to vet you.”
I followed Dixon out the back door into an alley, where a blacked-out SUV was waiting. They patted me down, took my phone, and blindfolded me. I didn’t resist. I kept track of the turns in my head. Three lefts, two rights, onto the highway, ten minutes south.
When they removed the blindfold, I was standing in the center of an empty, cavernous warehouse. Sitting on a leather sofa in the middle of the concrete floor was Royce Clark.
He was in his fifties, built like a fire hydrant, with dead, reptilian eyes that had witnessed—and ordered—unspeakable things.
“Larry Perkins,” Royce said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. “Dixon says you’re hungry.”
“I need cash,” I grunted.
Royce stood up and walked around me. “You look familiar, Larry.”
My heart rate remained at a steady sixty beats per minute. “I got one of those faces.”
“Take off your shirt,” Royce commanded.
I hesitated, acting reluctant, then pulled the thrift-store flannel over my head. My torso told a story. The extra weight was still there, but beneath it was thick, dense muscle. And covering my skin were the jagged white lines of old combat scars—shrapnel on the ribs, a knife wound on the shoulder.
“Military,” Royce noted, tracing a scar with his eyes. “Combat veteran. Hard miles on you. Good.” He smiled, revealing gold-capped molars. “We have a fight tomorrow night. Your opponent is a guy named Brenton. He recently suffered a… workplace injury. He’s angry. He wants to hurt someone to get his confidence back. That someone is going to be you.”
I recognized the name. Brenton Cantrell. The guy whose eardrum I had ruptured at the gym.
This was a test. Royce was suspicious. He was dangling bait to see if I would bite.
“Five grand if I lose, twenty if I win?” I asked, putting my shirt back on.
“If you survive the first round,” Royce chuckled.
