I sat down.
Royce turned the iPad toward me. It was paused on a frame from the security footage at Titan’s Forge. It showed a bearded man driving a knee into Lamar Duncan’s chest.
“You know,” Royce said as he poured 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 steady.
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 forward over 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 removed a file from his drawer and threw it onto 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, pretending to be sad. “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.”
Rage surged, a hot white flash behind my eyes, but I forced it down. This was the moment. The trap was ready, but I was the one holding the spring.
“I’ll fight for you,” I said coldly.
For the next four weeks, I maintained a double life. At night, I was Royce’s prize fighter, tearing through the underground circuit. My record climbed to 8-0. Royce made a fortune from me, and more importantly, he began trusting me. He let me into the VIP lounges, the back offices, and the strategy meetings.
What Royce didn’t realize was that every time I entered those rooms, I was working.
Gabriel Stevenson had connected me with Agent Linda Kane, an FBI task force commander who had spent five years trying to bring Royce Clark down on RICO charges. She had never managed to get someone inside.
Now, she had one.
I planted microscopic audio bugs beneath Royce’s desk. I used a camera concealed in my watch to photograph ledgers, payoff lists, and routing numbers for offshore accounts. I recorded conversations in which Royce explicitly ordered hits, extortions, and the bribery of two superior court judges.
“We have enough, Shane,” Agent Kane told me during a secret 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 expression grim. “Who is the Russian fighting?”
