Shane’s blood ran cold. Royce Clark ran the Southside Vipers, an organization that controlled illicit markets and underground fighting circuits across three counties. They weren’t street-level punks; they were organized criminals with legitimate business fronts and dirty cops on their payroll.
“Freeman is their prize fighter,” Gabriel continued. “They use him in illegal prize fights, betting hundreds of thousands. If he loses, people get hurt. He’s a monster in the ring, Shane. Three opponents hospitalized, one with permanent brain damage.”
“Send me everything,” Shane said, his voice flat.
“Shane, these people aren’t some drunk Marines you can straighten out. They’re—”
“Send me everything.”
That night, Marcy came for dinner. She wore long sleeves again and moved even more carefully than before. Lisa tried to draw her out, but Marcy just picked at her food, her body tensing every time her phone buzzed. She checked it constantly with barely concealed fear.
After dinner, Shane walked Marcy to her car. “Baby girl,” he said softly. “I know what’s happening.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Dad, please don’t.”
“Has he hit you?”
“It’s complicated. He gets stressed with training, with his uncle’s expectations. It’s not always—”
“Has. He. Hit. You?”
The tears spilled over. “He says he loves me. He apologizes every time. He’s just… he’s under so much pressure from his family.”
Shane pulled her into a hug, feeling her small frame shake against him. “This ends now.”
“Dad, you don’t understand! His uncle… Dustin said if I leave, Royce will hurt you. Hurt our family. They’re connected, Dad. Police, judges, everyone.”
“Let me worry about that. Promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”
Shane stroked her hair like he did when she was little, scared of thunderstorms. “I promise I’ll fix this.”
That night, he pulled his old footlocker from the garage attic. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, were things he’d hoped to never touch again: tactical gear, surveillance equipment, and a notebook filled with fifteen years of knowledge on how to neutralize threats. The Marine Corps had trained him to be a weapon. It was time to remember how to deploy it.
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon. Shane was at his job as a shop foreman at a custom furniture company when his phone rang. Lisa’s voice was ice. “Marcy’s in the ER. She listed me as her emergency contact.”
Shane’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. “How bad?”
“Concussion, bruised ribs, split lip. She says she fell downstairs, but Shane, there are defensive wounds on her forearms. And witnesses saw her arguing with Dustin in the parking lot of his gym an hour ago.”
The phone cracked in Shane’s grip. “I’m on my way.”
Perry Cox grabbed a training knife from a wall rack and lunged. Mistake. Shane’s disarm was reflexive. He trapped the weapon hand, controlled the wrist, and applied pressure to the nerve cluster while stepping into Perry’s center line. The knife clattered away. Shane drove three rapid strikes into Perry’s floating ribs, then swept both legs. Perry crashed onto his back. Shane followed him down, knee on sternum, and delivered two precise strikes to the jaw that sent Perry into darkness.
Seventeen seconds. Three fighters and a coach on the ground—two unconscious, one clutching a destroyed knee, one rolling in agony with a ruptured eardrum.
Shane stood and turned to Dustin Freeman. Dustin’s cocky grin had vanished. He backed toward the cage, hands up. “You’re finished! My uncle—”
Shane closed the distance in two steps. Dustin threw a combination—jab, cross, hook. Shane parried each strike, then delivered a front kick to the solar plexus that sent Dustin stumbling backward into the cage wall.
Before Dustin could recover, Shane was on him, trapping an arm behind his back. Shane slammed Dustin’s face into the chain-link once, twice, three times. Blood splattered, teeth cracked.
Shane spun Dustin around and lifted him by the throat, speaking inches from his ruined face. “You ever come near my daughter again, I will find you. You understand me?”
Dustin gurgled something that might have been agreement.
