Chapter 8 - The ReturnThe commercial building—formerly Dustin's MMA gym—was quiet when I pulled into the rear parking lot.
Victor’s men hadn't parked on the street. They had backed two dark gray SUVs into the private loading bay behind the building, completely obscured from public view.
I unzipped my duffel bag, pulling out a pair of lightweight tactical boots, a dark green windbreaker, and a suppressed 9mm pistol—a personal weapon I had brought home from my final deployment overseas.
I didn't intend to use the gun unless forced to. But Victor Vance wasn't a street thug like his brother. He was a trained operator who understood military tactics.
I slipped through the side maintenance entrance, stepping into the dark, echoey hallway leading to the main gym floor.
The smell of rubber mats and stale bleach still lingered, but the cage had been dismantled, replaced by stacks of renovation materials.
Standing in the center of the floor were five men wearing tactical jackets, holding short-barreled automatic rifles. They moved with disciplined, trained efficiency—former foreign contractors, not local gang members.
On the raised platform where the coach's office sat, a man in a bespoke gray suit was sipping espresso from a paper cup.
Victor Vance.
Fifty-eight years old, with sharp silver hair, a scarred jawline, and eyes as cold and gray as a winter sky.
"You're late, Marcus," Victor called down from the office platform, setting his espresso cup down on the railing.
I walked out onto the concrete floor, stopping twenty feet from his armed security team. I wore my windbreaker, hands casually tucked into my pockets.
"You brought mercenaries to settle a family dispute, Victor?" I said, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. "That seems a bit dramatic, even for you."
Victor chuckled dryly, leaning on the railing. "My brother Sal thought you were a hero because you beat up four amateur fighters and threatened him with a digital recorder. But I looked up your service record, Marcus. Force Recon. Chief Combatives Instructor at Quantico. A real ghost."
"If you read my record," I replied softly, "then you know how this ends if your men raise those weapons."
May you like
Victor’s expression hardened into cold steel. "My men were trained by the South African Special Task Force, Marcus. You're fifty-six years old, alone, and outgunned."
"Quantity," I murmured, stepping smoothly to my left, lining up two of his shooters in a single vector, "has never replaced quality."
