Chapter 5: The Devil’s Bargain
The illegal arena was set up in the basement of an abandoned meatpacking plant. The air smelled of rust, ozone, and old blood. Three hundred people were crammed into the space, waving fists full of cash, screaming at the fighters in the chain-link cage.
I stood in the red corner, wrapping my hands. Across the cage, bouncing on his toes, was Brenton Cantrell. He wore a protective wrestling guard over his damaged ear. He looked furious. But he didn’t recognize me. Without the gray beard, in different clothes, under the harsh strobe lights, I was just another piece of meat named Larry.
The bell rang.
Brenton charged, fueled by rage and ego. He threw a wild flurry of punches. I didn’t counterattack. I played defense. I slipped, ducked, and absorbed blows on my forearms. I had to calibrate my performance perfectly. If I destroyed him in ten seconds like I did at the gym, Royce would know exactly who I was. I had to look like a desperate brawler, not a master tactician.
For three minutes, I let Brenton tire himself out. He hit hard, but he was sloppy. My ribs throbbed where a hook managed to slip through my guard.
In the second round, Brenton grew frustrated. He dropped his hands to taunt me.
Mistake.
I stepped inside his reach. I didn’t use a clean Marine Corps strike. I threw a dirty, looping street-brawler hook. It connected with his jaw. As he stumbled, I rushed him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and slammed him to the mat. We scrambled in the dirt and sweat. I managed to lock in a clumsy but effective guillotine choke.
Brenton fought it, gasping, thrashing. His face was inches from mine.
Suddenly, as he stared into my blue eyes from inches away, recognition dawned. The adrenaline cleared the fog from his brain. His eyes went wide with sheer terror. He opened his mouth to scream.
“It’s yo—”
I tightened the choke, cutting off his airway and his vocal cords simultaneously. I squeezed until his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
The crowd erupted. I stood up, breathing hard, playing the exhausted victor.
As I walked out of the cage, Dixon grabbed my shoulder. “Boss wants to see you in the office. Now.”
I was led into a soundproofed meat locker that had been converted into an office. Royce Clark sat behind a metal desk. On the desk was an iPad.
“Have a seat, Larry,” Royce said. His voice was dangerously soft.
I sat.
Royce spun the iPad around. It was paused on a frame of security footage from Titan’s Forge. It showed a bearded man driving a knee into Lamar Duncan’s chest.
“You know,” Royce said, pouring himself a drink, “I pride myself on knowing everyone in my city. When this old man walked into my nephew’s gym and dismantled four of my best guys in under twenty seconds, I was impressed. And furious. Dustin is still eating his meals through a straw.”
I said nothing. I kept my breathing measured.
Royce tapped the screen. “I ran the plates on the truck parked outside the gym. Registered to a Shane Jones. Then, a guy named Larry shows up in my bar, built like a tank, with military scars. So, I set up a fight with Brenton. I watched the monitors closely, Shane. The beard is gone, but the eyes are the same. And Brenton recognized you right before you choked him out.”
Royce leaned across the desk. “So here is my dilemma, Gunnery Sergeant Jones. You humiliated my blood. By all rights, I should have Dixon put a bullet in the back of your head right now.”
“But you won’t,” I said, speaking for the first time.
Royce smiled. “No. I won’t. Because I am a businessman first. You are a highly trained, lethal weapon. And I have a use for a weapon like you.”
Royce pulled a file from his drawer and tossed it on the desk. “I want you to fight for me. Exclusively. I have high-roller clients who pay millions to watch real warriors bleed. You fight, you win, and I make money. In exchange, I forgive the debt you owe for Dustin’s face.”
“And if I refuse?”
Royce sighed, feigning sadness. “Your beautiful wife, Lisa, works the night shift at County General, right? Tragic how many car-jackings happen in hospital parking lots. And little Marcy… living all alone on Maple Street. Fires start so easily in those old apartment buildings.”
The rage spiked, a hot, white flash behind my eyes, but I forced it down. This was the moment. The trap was set, but I was the one holding the spring.
“I’ll fight for you,” I said coldly.
For the next four weeks, I lived a double life. By night, I was Royce’s prize fighter, tearing through the underground circuit. My record went to 8-0. Royce made a fortune on me, and more importantly, he began to trust me. He allowed me into the VIP lounges, the back offices, the strategy meetings.
What Royce didn’t know was that every time I entered those rooms, I was working.
Gabriel Stevenson had introduced me to Agent Linda Kane, an FBI task force commander who had been trying to nail Royce Clark on RICO charges for five years. She could never get a man on the inside.
Now, she had one.
I planted microscopic audio bugs under Royce’s desk. I used a camera hidden in my watch to photograph ledgers, payoff lists, and routing numbers for offshore accounts. I recorded conversations where Royce explicitly ordered hits, extortions, and the bribing of two superior court judges.
“We have enough, Shane,” Agent Kane told me during a clandestine meeting in a parking garage. “We can pull the trigger. The warrants are drafted.”
“Not yet,” I said, staring at the concrete wall. “Royce is paranoid. If we hit his houses, he’ll slip away. We need him in one place, surrounded by his entire network, with his guard completely down.”
“When?”
“Two weeks,” I said. “Royce is setting up the biggest fight of the year. He brought in a Russian ringer. A giant named Andre. Undefeated underground champion. Royce expects millions in illegal bets. Every major player in the Viper syndicate will be in the room.”
Agent Kane looked at me, her face grim. “Who is the Russian fighting?”
“Me.”
